Moon Struck

“You look bloody gorgeous!” Steven exclaims when he opens the flat’s door to find you in a dress on the other side. “Divine really, love.” 

He reaches out for your hand and tugs you across the threshold as you giggle and accept the compliment. “Thank you, Steven,” you say and his heart soars. 

He’ll never get tired of hearing you say his name. 

You grip his hand a bit tighter for balance and bend down to tug off one heel at a time. Steven can only stare at you, at the curve of your hips, the neckline of your dress that shows off more cleavage than you would usually. 

You simply glow, your skin radiant in the warm light of the apartment. 

“She looks beautiful,” Marc says, so softly that Steven almost misses it. 

When you straighten and let go of Steven’s hand to smooth the fabric of your dress, Steven takes the opportunity to glance at the fishtank. He finds Marc’s reflection staring at you with a softness that he reserves only for you. 

It's a softness that he tries to hide from Steven, even though Steven is the one constantly telling Marc to get a grip and do something about his feelings for you already. 

He probably doesn’t want Steven to repeat the message but he does it anyways because Marc was starting to become bloody unbearable with the way he pined for you. 

“Marc says you look beautiful, love,” Steven says. 

Marc makes an irritated noise at Steven’s meddling and goes quiet. 

Fine with him, Marc could brood in silence at his passing along the compliment if he well pleased. 

You glance up and look a tiny bit flustered. “Oh, well, thank you both, very much. You don’t think I’m overdressed for this? I wish you would have told me which restaurant so that I could have-,” 

Steven shakes his head, “You’ll see soon enough that you're dressed exactly right.” 

You smile and step closer to him, Steven’s breath hitching in his lungs at your proximity like he hasn’t been dating you for months now, like you don’t shower him with affection all the time, kiss him all the time, take every opportunity to tuck yourself against him. 

He dips his head close to yours, the smell of your perfume intoxicating to him, sweet like summer rain. You reach up to smooth your fingers carefully over the collar of his shirt, pressing it back into place, adjusting his jacket on his shoulders before popping the top button of his shirt open. 

Your fingers touch the necklace always looped around his throat and his breath catches when he feels the warm press of your fingers against his collarbone. 

“You look quite smart yourself, baby,” you murmur, eyes flicking up to meet his gaze. 

And Steven really loves that, loves how you call him baby. 

You step closer to him and tilt your chin up, eyes sparkling in the low light. He admires the way your lashes flutter, the careful way you applied your makeup. The line of your body is pressed against his and Steven has to fight down the urge to spit out a fact he’d just remembered about the exact shade of blue you were wearing. 

He wants to admire you for just a moment longer, enjoying the press of your hand to the back of his neck, the stutter in your breath when you nudge your nose against his cheek gently. 

“She wants you to kiss her,” Marc says quietly, making Steven glance up and over, but Marc isn’t looking at him and he isn’t looking at you either. He’s pointedly staring away, jaw clenched. 

When Steven looks back to you, you’re frowning, eyes turned toward the fishtank now too. “Marc isn’t happy I’m here, is he?”

“Er-,” 

Truthfully, Steven doesn’t know what to say about Marc anymore. 

He’d thought that after you spent the night together the day you were attacked in the alleyway, that things would get easier. 

Steven remembers it after all, the glow of emotions that swelled inside them both, the way Marc had stayed with you and monitored you well beyond what was necessary, how he’d watched the show you suggested, played cards with you through the night until he was absolutely satisfied that you did not have a concussion, how he’d massaged your sore legs, insisted on a heat pack to ease the pain. 

And since that night, he’s refused to front again when you were around. 

“He’s chuffed,” he settles on. “Just being a bit broody as usual.” 

“Because of me.” 

“No,” Steven rushes to reassure you. “No, he’s just -,” 

“She’s your girl, Steven,” Marc cuts in suddenly, voice harsh. “Not mine. I’m indifferent to whether or not she’s here.” 

Steven freezes at the words, watching you tilt your head to the side in askance. When he doesn’t say anything, feelings a bit fuzzed inside his veins, you smile and reach up to run your hands through his hair, adjusting a stray curl against his forehead before you say, “It’s okay. He doesn’t have to be.” And you seem like you really mean that. “I think I upset him when I ask after him so I’ll stop. I won’t bother him anymore.” 

“You aren’t a bother-,” 

“I am though. I get it, I’ve been unbearably annoying for a long time now. You’re always happy to see me and that’s all that matters,” you laugh and check the time on your ever present wristwatch, really seeming okay. But Steven is glad you don’t ask what Marc said, because despite what you say, he knows it would hurt your feelings. And Steven does not lie to you. “Didn’t you say the reservation is at 8? We should get going or we’ll be late.” 

Steven glances at the fishtank again, at the way Marc is staring at you, regret and hope lodged in his eyes. 

“It’s better this way,” Marc says when you go to the kitchen for a glass of water before you head out. “Trust me.” 

“Marc, you idiot,” is all Steven has the patience to mutter back. 

~

Steven sways you gently from side to side, his arms warm around your waist. 

You had arrived a bit late to dinner, but that was only because Steven got distracted with telling you of a myth he’d rediscovered recently in a text he’d found in a secondhand bookshop. 

The myth therefore had taken more precedent than actually making it to the restaurant on time. “Oh dear, we’re quite a while away yet,” Steven had said as your reservation time neared. 

You did not mind, had worn comfortable heels just in case you ended up wandering about rather than finding your way to the restaurant. 

Thankfully, they had still been holding your table, even as a flustered Steven apologized to you over and over. 

“Tell me to shut my trap and pay attention, yeah? That’s what I keep you around for after all. To keep my mind on track.” 

“Oh, is that all?” 

You liked the pretty dark flush that crept up his neck, stained his cheeks.

“Definitely not all , no.” Steven is romantic in a way that makes your heart flutter, a painful little dance in your chest, and that moment was no different. “You are so many things to me, love. Bit brilliant of you, innit, to take up my whole world like that?” 

You could really only kiss him in response. Words would never properly express the things he made you feel completely inadvertently.

After you finally ate, Steven had nervously asked you if you’d like to dance. A few older couples had already made their way to the lowly lit dance floor. 

It was incredibly romantic, the gold glow of the lamps, the sweetly quiet music. 

“Was a bit nervous about tonight actually,” he murmurs to you and you pull back from where your cheek is pressed against his shoulder to look into those dark eyes. He’s smiling at you softly, eyes round, brows sloped gently up. 

“Oh,” you say, sliding your hands down his chest and then up to link behind his neck, thumbs rubbing circles against the edge of his jaw. “And why is that? We’ve been on lots of dates.” 

This was your first proper dinner date though. 

Your first date ever had been to a falafel place, Steven nervously chatting your ear off about every little thing that crossed his mind. Afterwards, you had gone to a bookstore. 

You aren’t sure that you’d said more than 10 words at dinner. But when he brought you to the bookstore, he’d listened intently to every little thing you said as though anything that passed your lips was the most interesting thing he’d ever heard. 

Every date after that had consisted of cozy nights in, rewatching old shows, puzzling through ancient Egyptian texts together though you had close to no idea what you were looking at, cooking together, letting Steven teach you French, playing cards and board games. 

“Well,” Steven says now, turning you in a lazy circle, one arm firm around your waist. “Someone here is a professional dancer aren’t they? You. And I’ve got two left feet most days.”

“This isn’t the kind of dancing I do you know.” 

“I certainly hope not,” he murmurs. “Twirling in a circle. How silly.” 

“I do occasionally twirl in a circle,” you tease. 

“Bit more complicated than this though, innit?” 

You press your thumb to the center of his chin and angle his head down. Steven follows your touch easily, his mouth a soft line, warm hands dropping just a bit lower on your hips. “Most days,” you murmur, tipping your head up, hoping he would kiss you. 

Steven’s head tilts away from you suddenly, just like it had earlier at the apartment when you thought he would kiss you. He looks vaguely irritated. You follow his gaze to his reflection in the glassware, and try not to feel the sting of hurt. 

You have a suspicion Marc is purposefully disrupting each kiss you try to pull from Steven. 

It hurts more than you would like to admit. 

You’d thought that after the night you were attacked he would have been just a tiny bit more endeared to you. 

While you don’t expect him to care about you as Steven does, you hoped he would at least stop hating you so much. Marc had even made a point to tell you that he did not hate you, had cared for you so carefully that you decided to believe him. 

He’d been so kind that night, so careful of you, and sweet, that you’d thought surely he’d at least come to accept you as a part of Steven’s life. 

But apparently not. 

Apparently, you were not good enough. 

Not for Marc, and not for Steven either. 

And some days, you can’t help but agree. 

Lately, everything was going wrong. The dance company you worked at was demanding and you felt recently like you couldn’t keep up. The load kept getting heavier and you weren’t sure how you would keep bearing it. 

It was why you’d been so glad for this night, for Steven to dote on you as he always has without any prompting. You think Steven really does adore you, sees the world when he looks at you. 

You glance away from him, because if his alter and you agreed on anything it was that Steven was much too good for you. 

You tug yourself away from Steven, giving him a shaky smile. “I’m rather tired, Steven-,” 

“Oh! Of course, you’re in those awful shoes - not that the shoes are awful they’re quite nice looking, make your legs look bloody fantastic -,” he stutters to a stop, swallowing hard when an unexpected laugh bursts free from you. “There I go again, just saying the first thing that pops into my mind -,” 

You take his hand and tug him back to your table. “You think I have nice legs, so?” 

“Y-yes, I quite do.” 

It makes your heart lighten just a little bit, Steven tugging your chair closer to his so that he can keep a grip on your hand. “I just wanted to say, maybe your feet are hurting a bit and we don’t want none of that. Not with your performances coming up.”

You nod, an ache beginning in the center of your chest as you watch Steven try to flag down a waiter for another glass of wine for you. “Hey,” you say gently, when the waiter leaves your table and his eyes drift back to the slow moving couples on the dance floor, “You know I love you, right?”

“And I love you, love,” he chirps immediately, smiling even as pink creeps up his neck. “Very much I do. How could I not? Brilliant as you are.” 

You pat his hand, your heart sinking as his eyes flicker back to his reflection in the glassware and wonder what Marc could be saying.  

~

“When she tilts her chin up like that, she wants you to kiss her,” Marc says, jamming his finger against the on button of the coffee pot with more force than necessary. 

Maybe Steven didn’t see the way your face fell, but he did. He saw the way your chin jutted up, the way your eyes went round and wide, mouth parting gently. 

God how badly he wanted to be the one holding you. 

He would have edged a finger beneath your jaw, kissed you so softly he could surely feel the stutter of your breath against his mouth. 

He would have pressed a kiss to your chin and down your jaw to your ear. He would have-

You were not his. 

And Marc does not deserve your attention, not that you would ever give it. 

“Marc I don’t need you to tell me when to kiss her,” Steven says, flopping back onto the bed in the mirror that Marc can just see from the corner of his eye. “I knew she wanted me to and you distracted me. You always are, recently. If you want to kiss her so badly-,” 

“I don’t want to kiss her,” Marc snaps. “You-,” 

“Give it a rest, Marc. Maybe you can fool yourself but you can’t fool me,” Steven says acidly. “You should kiss her! If you didn’t push her away, you probably already would have.”

Marc stares at the coffee pot, angling himself so that no reflection stares back at him.

God, did he want to. 

He wishes he would have the night you were hurt, the night he failed you by not being there when you left the theater. 

But he hadn’t, because he really did not deserve you, not after failing you, not after letting you believe he hated you. 

“She’s yours, not mine.” 

“Yes,” Steven agrees, “But as I’ve been saying for months she could be ours . She cares about you Marc, and I remember that night, I remember the way she looked at you, the way you looked at her.” 

Marc stares at the coffee percolating into the pot. “And you’d really be okay with that? Sharing?” It's like poison on his tongue, reducing the feelings shared to something so base. “Doesn’t matter now anyways.”

“Why don’t you let her make her own decisions, yeah? She’s got a brilliant head on her shoulders.” Steven goes quiet for a moment and then says, “Marc, you can let people care about you. She already does. But she thinks you hate her.”

Marc grits his teeth, sloshing the coffee into a cup, tired of having the same conversation day in and day out. “I told her that I don’t.” 

“Actions speak louder than words. How do you think she feels knowing that you still don’t want to see her? Bloody awful. Doesn’t matter that you had a nice night together because you’re ignoring her again.”

“My actions do speak - I do everything I can to protect her. That should be enough. I almost failed that night. It would have been my fault. She got hurt because of me.” 

Steven gives a long sigh. “She doesn’t want to be protected, Marc. And she doesn’t blame you for that night. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. And she wants you to spend time with her! She’d never demand it because she’s afraid she’d be forcing something but it’s what she wants. To know you. She doesn’t want you stalk after her from atop buildings, she wants you to meet her at the door and walk her home.”

Marc collapses in a chair, cup of coffee in hand, and sighs. Before he can respond, Steven continues, “And don’t tell me this is to protect the system. We’re happier with her. You’re happier with her.”

~

You balance along the edge of the pavement, your voice drifting up to him. 

Marc walks just as slowly as you do along the rooftops above you, keeping pace with you as you make your slow way home from the theater. 

You’d exchanged your ruined duffle bag for a backpack, which Marc both likes more and less. The duffle bag was easier to clothesline you with, but the backpack made for something easier to grip toward the back of your neck.

But it doesn’t matter, because he won’t ever let you walk home unaccompanied again. He would never let something like that night ever happen to you again. 

He thinks about that night every time he makes this trek with you, how he was almost too late, the fierce way you’d clawed and kicked, completely untrained but somewhat effective nonetheless. 

But he doesn’t like to think about what would have happened had he arrived a few minutes later, how it would have broken Steven into nothing, how it would have left Marc vulnerable and raw, how you might have been taken from them, from the world, way before your time. 

And how it would have been all his fault. 

Everything that night was his fault, no matter what you and Steven said. 

That knife had been so close to your skin, had left a little divot of scar near the top of your cheek. 

It was one thing to deal with a broken heart because the relationship didn’t work out, and another thing entirely to have everything ripped forcibly away from them, from him and Steven. 

He doesn’t like to think about Khonshu in your ear whispering advice that may have gotten you killed. Khonshu had his own whims and you’d have had no way of knowing his true intentions when he gave you advice. 

It worries him constantly that you had listened to that fucking pigeon. 

Any sane person wouldn’t have.

But you did. 

Below on the street, you’ve gone strangely silent, feet tracing the path back to your flat, heels dragging just a bit. You always slowed to an aching crawl near the end of the walk. 

It makes his nerves light up pleasantly, like maybe you don’t want to leave him, just as he doesn’t want to leave you. 

And Marc dreads leaving you behind each night, the short walk was never long enough to satisfy his craving for time with you. 

You reach the front steps of your apartment building and hesitate, one foot on the bottom step. You stand there staring at the steps for so long, Marc begins to worry there’s something there he can’t see from the roof’s angle, some lurking danger that he’s missing. 

But then you suddenly sit down, slumping down onto the steps like you can’t find the energy to make the small climb, like you can’t find the energy to even keep standing. You shrug your backpack off and shove it away from you. 

Marc frowns, watching you brace your elbows against your knees, fingers fidgeting with your key ring in one hand, while your other goes up to cover your eyes. 

Your keychain is shaped like a crescent moon. 

Steven had given it to you on your second date. 

Marc remembers the way you’d smiled and immediately dug out your keys to hook it on. 

He remembers the way you hadn’t been able to stop laughing when Steven said, “It’s really more from Gus, as a thank you for the Spinx to spruce up the old tank.”

The memory abruptly dissipates when he hears you sniffle. You hang your head between your knees and cover your mouth, shaky breaths inhaled through your nose in a way that lets him know you’re desperately trying not to cry. 

Marc hesitates there on the roof, watching your shoulders shake before you get a handle on your emotions and take a shuddering breath. 

“Do you want me to take the body?” Steven suddenly asks, his voice concerned and gentle. “One of us needs to go to her, Marc.”

Marc watches you a moment longer, the tremble in your hands, the crescent moon quivering in your grasp and knows that Steven is right. 

And Marc decides that it should be him that goes to you. 

This was his domain, these nights with you were his. 

And if someone had hurt you without his realizing it, he would need to know, after all. It was his job to protect you, and he wouldn’t make the mistake of letting those who hurt you live again. 

He steps to the lip of the building and drops to the ground, stalking over to your place on the steps as he lets the gauze of the mask slip back from his face. 

Your head jerks up with a gasp, before you recognize him and settle. 

“Oh, Marc,” you whisper, swiping your fingers beneath your eyes. “I thought you would already be gone.” 

Marc carefully sits next to you on the steps, fluttering the cape out to wrap around your shoulders. “You didn’t go inside,” he says simply. “You aren’t home yet.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric, tugging it close. “I’m perfectly safe.” 

“But something’s wrong.” 

Your bottom lip trembles, and you eye him for a moment before scooting closer, leaning your head against his shoulder. 

Marc tries not to stiffen, tries to keep himself loose and soft so that you don’t pull away. Steven is curiously silent, watching closely from one of the ever present London puddles. Marc knows he’s simultaneously bursting with happiness that Marc has approached you himself and worried over whatever had made you cry. 

“So, you only approach me when I’m in acute distress I see,” you joke, tugging the cape closer around your shoulders. “Maybe I’ll start crying on my front steps more often.” 

Marc swallows down the shame that bubbles up, that you thought you needed to cry to get his attention. “I would rather you not do that.” 

For a moment, you just sit in silence, your nose turned into his bicep as you take long breaths. Marc silently holds out a hand, which you take, the keychain you still hold pressing into his hand. 

“You should sell these to hospitals as shock blankets,” you say, tugging at the cape. “It’s very comforting. How is it always so warm? And dry? That’s quite the feat for London.” 

Marc is sure Khonshu would absolutely love the suggestion that the ancient ceremonial armor be used as a blanket. But he looks over at you, and you look back with wide, wet eyes and he agrees, he should sell them, he should do everything you say. He wants to hand the fucking thing over to you right then. 

He swallows, forcing himself to look away from your eyes, and at your twinned fingers instead, gently sliding his thumb along the back of your hand. “What happened?” He asks again.

You look away and shrug. “Nothing in particular. I…I just don’t think I’m good enough to stay at that dance company. The last few weeks have been really hard. It’s just been one mistake after another recently in rehearsals. And I’m tired of being tired.” You pause and swallow, letting go of his hand to trace the crescent moon keychain with a finger. “After the upcoming performances, I may quit the dance company. And - and maybe move home again.” 

“Oh, love,” Steven murmurs. “Why didn’t you say anything? Marc, tell her she’s a bloody brilliant dancer. She’s so wildly talented.” 

Marc ignores Steven for the moment, wondering if maybe he should give the body to his alter. Steven would be better equipped to comfort you, but he thinks leaving in that moment would change something between you, and that you would never trust him again. He takes a breath to respond when you continue, “I just know I’m not good enough, for anything. It was a mistake to come here. It was a mistake to think I could do this.” 

Maybe he should tell you that you were good enough for that company, that he’s seen you dance so many times and you were beyond talented, but that’s not what he says. Instead Marc says, “So quit. You don’t have to leave London.”

You snort, “If only it were that easy. I need a job and money. I don’t have any skills -,” 

“So stay with Steven,” Marc says, “With us.” 

You turn to him, blinking in surprise as your lips part, and Marc hastily adds, “Steven says that you’re a bloody brilliant dancer by the way.” He poorly imitates Steven’s accent which gets a giggle from you. “Maybe you don’t need to quit,” Marc says, the practical side of him kicking in. 

This was a solvable problem, with this he could help you. 

“Maybe you just need a change of pace,” Marc says, holding out a hand to you. You take his hand immediately, which makes a prickle of warmth dart down his spine. He stands and tugs you up from the steps gingerly. “Moving in a different way than you normally do might make whatever you’re struggling with come easier to you.” 

He moves behind you, curls his arms around yours to circle your wrists with his fingers, adjusting your stance with a gentle tap to the inside of your foot with his own. “Loosen up, soften the knees.”  

Marc releases your hands and circles you, knocking your elbow up just a bit, assessing your stance. 

“Did you just make that up, Spector? Moving a different way ? And are you just using this as an excuse to teach me to fight?” 

Marc rolls his eyes, of course Steven had told you about his determination that you should know some basics of self-defense.

“I’m teaching you self-defense . Hopefully you’ll never have to fight anyone.” 

“Because you’ll always be there,” you joke. 

Marc swallows and nods, “I’ll always be there.” 

You blink, the seriousness in his voice seeming to surprise you. “Oh.” You watch him, and Marc has to look away, doesn’t want to parse out the way you tilt your head, the tug at the corner of your mouth. “Okay. I don’t see how it can hurt in any case.”

It would distract you from your worries for a bit at the very least.

He clears his throat and lets the ceremonial armor fall away from his skin, “Okay, first thing you need to know is…”

~ 

You have a few basic self defense moves memorized when Marc calls it quits for the night. 

Under the streetlamp his skin glistens with the mist of rain peppering down gently.

You do feel a bit better, like you could face the stage again tomorrow, and try not to stare too intently at Marc who picks up your bag and gestures toward the building’s front door. 

He follows you upstairs and gently deposits your bag by the front door when you twist the lock out of place. “Offer stands by the way,” he says. “I know Steven wouldn’t mind having you at home.” 

You meet Marc’s eyes, the heavy set of his brows intense as he assesses you, careful of you in a way that makes you want to drown in him. “And what about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“We - we would have to live together too.” 

Marc reaches up and cups your cheek, and your breath stalls in your lungs. His thumb slides over the arch of your cheek, over the scar that was permanently etched there. “We would,” he murmurs before dropping his hand. 

Your cheek feels cool where his touch disappeared and you can only nod. 

“Okay.” You take a breath, “I’ll think about it.” 

“You’re gonna stick it out aren’t you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“That’s my girl.”

Before his words can sink in, Marc is gone and you’re left alone with a stupid smile on your face. 

~

You don’t know it, but after Marc leaves he goes to the top of your building with Steven chattering excitedly in his ear, and calls out for Khonshu. 

Marc has decided you’re his , after nearly a year of denial and beating back the feelings he felt he should not be privy to. 

But now that he knew, he was all in.

He feels the intensity bubbling inside him, the wild heat that surrounded his bones. The armor is back in place, his lip twitching as he stops before Khonshu when he appears and stares up at him. 

“I need a favor.” 

The god of the night sky looks down his beak at Marc who lifts his chin and stares back. 

“And what do you need, Marc Spector?”

Marc squares his shoulders and asks for a cape for you. It would keep you warm, you could sleep with it, and if it just so happened to be bulletproof that was even better. 

“That little bug is not worthy of -,” Khonshu booms out. 

Marc grits his jaw, Steven cautioning him, “Marc she’s fine without-,”

“Take part of ours then,” Marc says without hesitation. “Give her an extension of ours.” 

Khonshu stares at him, dark cavernous eye sockets assessing him, and Marc knows he’s outing himself, that he’s openly declaring you a vulnerability, a weak spot. 

But he doesn’t care, can only think about the way you buried your nose against the fabric, commented on its continual warmth, like the heat of the desert was stored inside it. 

Marc can see Khonshu calculating all the ways it can be used as a manipulation tactic, and knows that he’ll give it up, that he’ll weave you something. 

“Very well.” Khonshu looks away, fingers tightening on the staff in his hand. “Know that your own will be weakened, worm.” 

And with that, he’s gone, soft while fabric settling in the place he disappeared. 

Marc picks it up, assessing the blanket sized object in his hands. When he shakes it out, it transforms into a jacket. 

“Oh, sometimes that bird is bloody brilliant,” Steven says. “She’s not going to be happy that it weakens our suits.” 

“She doesn’t have to know.” 

Steven actually considers that, chin tilting down in the window he’s reflected in across the street. “That’s a pretty poor way to begin a relationship though, innit?” 

“Relationship?” Marc grumbles, shaking the jacket back into a blanket before he folds it up. 

“Yes, I seem to recall your girl being quite taken with you.” 

Marc can’t quite hide the pride that surges through his veins. 

~

There’s a box with a note at the foot of your bed the next morning. 

The note doesn’t bear a message, but carries signatures from both Marc and Steven. Marc’s name is a quick scrawl, Steven’s a carefully loopy lettering. There’s a little heart next to both names that you know Steven has added without Marc’s permission. 

You smile, wondering at Marc’s name, at the way he’d called you his girl, at the unexpected but soft touch of his hand against your cheek. 

Maybe, finally, he was coming around to the idea of you. 

Maybe he was finally beginning to like you and not just tolerate you for Steven’s benefit. 

You flick open the box and feel your heart shutter to a stop in your chest, fingers curling into the warm fabric sitting innocently inside. 

It’s clearly the same material as the suits Steven and Marc wore, soft and warm, gauzy like Marc’s but somehow smooth like Steven’s. 

You wonder what they must have traded to get Khonshu to give up something like that. 

You shake it out of the box, briefly seeing that it was vaguely blanket shaped before it changed in your hands, becoming what looked to be an oversized trench coat. “Oh, what have the pair of you done?” You murmur, standing to slip the coat on over your shoulders. 

It fits you perfectly, hanging on your frame exactly the way it should as if it had been hand tailored to you. 

When you take it off and shake it again, the blanket returns. 

You can’t help the laugh that leaves you, the smile that pulls at your mouth until you can no longer fight it. 

~

“Maybe if we move this stack beside the bed, we’ll have more room near the windows.”

Marc huffs, annoyed, and sits down a stack of books at your elbow. “Maybe if you and Steven weren’t such nerds and hoarders, we wouldn’t have this problem.” 

“Hey! None of this is mine.” 

“You encourage him,” Marc bites out. 

You giggle but Steven says, “Oy, leave her alone! I don’t want her to stop buying me books, mate.” 

Marc rolls his eyes but moves the books where you indicated he should. “What’s Steven saying?” You ask and Marc repeats the message. 

You turn to the mirror and say, “I’ll never stop, don’t worry darling.” 

In the mirror, Steven flushes, eyes rounded with love as he looks at you fondly. 

Marc sometimes thinks you really can see Steven standing in the mirror, the conviction with which you address him surprising in its intensity. 

Steven is dopey eyed, watching you tick your fingers along a stack of books, noting titles. You were attempting some kind of organization of the books, although probably in vain. “Isn’t she amazin’?” Steven asks, hands held gently in front of his chest, eyes following your every movement.

“Something like that,” Marc mutters under his breath, turning to watch you knock a pen against the stack of books. His heart feels too big for his chest when he looks at you these days, like it might burst at the slightest pressure. 

If he thought being around you before was a kind of agony, being around you now that he’s admitted to himself that he wants you, is excruciating. Being around you as himself has taken some adjusting to. 

He has the urge, all the time, to hold your hand, loop an arm around your waist, kiss you until you couldn’t breathe. 

“Go on and ask her, Marc,” Steven says, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt as he looks at you too, skimming through one of the French books Steven had left out for you before Marc fronted that afternoon. “About the performances? You’ve been meaning too for so long now, just go on and do it, yeah?” 

Marc swallows and opens his mouth when you look up at him. “Did you see the note I left you yesterday? I left it with Gus and Friend.” 

He had. 

It’s in his pocket now and will join the collection of all the other notes you’d ever left him. 

The one you left yesterday had said, 

I bought all the ingredients for latkes. Will you help me make them? 

Of course, you signed your name with a little heart. 

And Marc feels stuck, struck stupid by the feelings that chase each other up his throat. 

He wishes he were better at this, better at just telling you exactly what he felt. 

But he’d really never been good at that. He’s never been good at talking about important things. 

“Yeah,” he answers you, “I saw it.” 

Marc transfers another stack of precariously stacked books to the other side of the room, trying to avoid looking directly at you, at the slope of your shoulders, the way your brow is slightly furrowed, your lips twisted down into a pout. 

All he dreams about is kissing the corner of that pout -

“You don’t want to?” You sound dejected, turning in the chair to watch him. 

“You can’t just stop talking in the middle of a conversation, Marc,” Steven reprimands him. 

Marc grits his teeth and you frown, your eyes washing over the clenched curve of his jaw before you turn away to gather up your books. “I think I’ll go now,” you murmur. “Would you let Steven know to call me later?” 

He’s frozen, surrounded by books that aren’t his. Surrounded by feelings he doesn’t know how to articulate.

“Wait,” he says, crossing the room to where you stand by the desk. You glance up at him when he nears, your brows pinched tight, fingers dug into the fabric of the jacket he’d gifted you. The jacket that would hopefully keep you just a bit safer, make you feel a bit warmer. “Yeah, I’ll help you make them.” 

You tilt your head and don’t seem to mind how close he is. “Really?” 

“Sure.” 

Your fingers twist together nervously. “I know they’re holiday food of sorts but I wanted to try them and Steven said you probably wouldn’t mind if I asked -,” You seem to make yourself forcibly stop speaking. “Anyways, sorry-,” 

“Nothing to apologize for. We can do it tonight, if you have time.” 

“Nice one, Marc,” Steven says as you nod and release your anxious fingers from the jacket, your forehead relaxing. “Now ask her about the performances.” 

But Marc doesn’t know how to bring it up as you flip your book open again and point out an interesting passage to him. 

~

You invited Marc and Steven to your last performance, a note stuck to the fishtank for whoever happened to see it first. 

You have no doubt that Steven will come. 

While you’re grateful that Marc has accepted you into his life, accepted you as a part of Steven’s life, you still get the sense that he kept something back from you. You imagine it as a judgment, a flaw that he’d sensed in you and was only waiting for Steven to cotton on to. 

The jacket they’d gifted you only proves it a little bit, that you needed the extra layer of protection, that you were a liability to them in so many ways. 

Marc cooked with you now, watched any movie you thought he should see, let you read to him out loud. He’d quietly adjusted the recipe you had found for latkes to be more like the one he grew up with, continued his determination to teach you self-defense although you were generally abysmal at it. 

But you catch the way he looks at you sometimes, his stare so intense, his brow a low line, never smiling at you - and you can only imagine he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with you, what exactly Steven saw in you. 

There was no way he would be the one to show. 

You’d decided to stay at the dance company for the time being, though this was the last performance you would be in for a while. 

It meant something to you, that you’d stuck it out and made it through.

You were proud of yourself.  

It meant even more that everything that day went exactly to plan with not a hiccup in sight. It was one of your best performances and you felt elated that Steven had gotten to see it. 

So your heart sinks right through the floor when you finish changing and saying goodbye to your co-workers and friends, when you finish wrapping your sore ankles and packing your bag, that you walk out of the dressing rooms and find no one waiting for you. 

You search. 

You think maybe you just don’t see him at first. 

But no one is there. 

You tuck your beloved trench coat tighter around you, the dry warmth of it comforting you despite yourself. 

The only problem with the coat was that it always smelled like Marc, like lavender and jasmine, smoky incense burned low. You hate to admit that it helps you fall asleep, that you're always curled inside it. 

Your heart clenches, your mouth dry as everyone around you receives hugs and congratulations from friends and family, bouquets of flowers and gifts, and you stand alone. 

Something Moon Knight related must have happened. Though you didn’t expect Marc, Steven wouldn’t have missed something so important to you without a very good reason. 

You check your phone but there are no messages and no missed calls. 

Loneliness threatens to overwhelm you and all you want to do is go home and cry. 

Again. 

It feels like that was all you’ve done since moving to London. 

And so you put on a brave face and take the back exit, slowly descending the stairs that you always take alone. You swipe tears from your eyes, taking a shaking breath that chokes your lungs. 

You look up before crossing the street, glancing back and forth when you see him. 

Steven, smiling at you from across the pavement. 

You know it's Steven standing there, holding a large bunch of flowers, waiting for you, his eyes fastened on you. 

Marc had a way of never looking at you directly, that you learned quickly, was not easy for him to do. He was prickly and guarded where Steven was open and easy to laugh. Marc was serious and hard, always frowning at you. 

It’s how you came to know the immediate difference between the two of them, Steven smiled at you, Marc did not. 

You cross the street, his name on the tip of your tongue when he says, “Hey, baby.”

Your steps falter and stop, the smile on his face blinking away in a second. 

You’re still an arms length away - eyeing each other uncertainly. 

“Marc?” You ask carefully. 

He swallows, you watch the movement of his throat in the glow of the streetlights that are starting to pop on as the set sets in the distance. It's not raining for once and everything is cast in a melted orange glow. 

“Yeah, sorry. It was crowded in there. Steven’s mad I didn’t text you so you’d know where to find-,” 

“You came? You…I mean you watched?” 

Marc's jaw goes tight, his eyes impossible to read. “I…yeah. You said either of us. You’ve asked me about it-,” 

“I never thought you would come.” 

Marc’s face flickers blank, like you sucker punched him. “Oh,” he says and if you didn’t know better you would think he sounded hurt. 

“I never thought you would come because you seem so…indifferent to me. I know you put up with a lot from me for Steven. I’m just surprised you would come instead of him.” 

Marc stares at you, his eyes wide with a surprise you’ve never seen before. “You think I’m indifferent to you?” 

You wince, not sure you’re ready to hear whatever it is Marc really thinks of you. He lets the bunch of flowers fall point down as he stalks closer to you, curiously gentle fingers circling your wrist as he pushes you against the side of the building. 

Marc is lit by the glow of the sun, eyes lightened into an amber burn, furious in his intensity. 

He drops your wrist to tuck his arm around your waist, his forehead dipping to rest against yours. 

“I am anything but indifferent to you. You, you consume every fucking thought I have. I tried not to be for so long but I’m - I -,” he stops and swallows.

You stare at him, noticing for the first time how long his lashes are, how his eyes are round but his brows are still in that tight line, the circles that perpetually lined his eyes. 

His lips part and his breath ghosts over your lips and you know what he wants to say. 

Steven chattered at you all the time, but Marc didn’t ever speak more than he needed to. 

But you think about the way he had stayed in your apartment for the duration of the night you’d been mugged, massaging the sore muscles in your legs, asking you questions to assess your memory, to make sure that no confusion was setting in, that you weren’t concussed. 

You think about the way it had been obvious after an hour that you were fine, that you were only really bruised at your temple, but without a concussion. And yet Marc had insisted on staying anyway, occasionally making you sit up so he could peer into your eyes, make sure your pupils weren’t dilated or different in size.  

And when you had gently taken his hand away from your face and laced your fingers with his, he had looked startled, glanced at your fingers before meeting your eyes. But your reassurance of, “He really didn’t hit me that hard,” had only made Marc’s jaw clench and his fingers tighten against yours. 

You think of how he’d come to make sure you were alright the night you cried on your front stoop, the way he watched you every single night you had to walk home alone, about the way he’d gotten you a version of the cape because you mentioned how you liked it, how it made you feel safe. And traded gods only knew what with Khonshu for it. 

You think about the quiet way he ate the food you made him even back before the attack, how he kept all the notes you left, how he quietly corrected your stance even when his voice was harsh with reprimand. How he corrected your recipe for latkes so they would turn out better and let you read out loud passages from books that you knew he found infinitely boring. 

Those were not the actions of someone who was indifferent. 

Those were the actions of someone who  - 

“Oh, Marc,” you murmur. 

He swallows and nods, like your words have confirmed something for him, like you're mourning him already, like you were about to tell him a terrible truth. 

And so you panic when he starts to pull away, and instead press your mouth very carefully to his, and feel the shaken inhale against your nose. You reach up and press a hand to the side of his neck, ghosting your fingers along his cheek, feeling the tug of the beginning of stubble on his skin. 

You curl your fingers into his hair and hope like hell you didn’t just ruin everything. 

And then Marc drops the flowers, presses you hard into the wall and kisses you back, his mouth insistent against yours, devouring, so different to the gentle way Steven kissed you. Both his arms circle your waist, fingers digging into your back, into his curve of your spine, curling up to the back of your neck to hold you in place. 

He only pulls away when you start to go dizzy, when the press of him against you, his mouth against yours, is painful. Like he would swallow you, consume you, if he could. 

He bumps his forehead against yours, breath coming in sharp gasps. “I am not indifferent. I’ve been trying to be. With you it's impossible.” 

“How long-,” 

“Always. The whole time. Since Steven saw you standing in the museum that first time. I just…I need us to be okay. It’s what I do. It’s what we do - Steven and I - we protect each other.” 

You nod, Marc’s body so warm against yours, his arms hard and strong beneath your touch, the press of muscle against your fingers. 

A curl of dark hair has fallen in front of eyes like the warmth of suns, like the turn of the earth. You reach up and push it back. “I understand.”

Marc’s head twitches to the side, and you aren’t sure where he can see a reflection but you know he does. “Steven says that you’re good for him.” A second later, Marc bites out, only slightly reluctantly, “For us.” And then quietly, “For me.” 

You stroke his cheek and let him be for a moment, stroking his hair, not looking away from his eyes until he relaxed against you. “You really are a beautiful dancer. The performance was great. We both thought so.” 

“It must be all the self-defense training making me move differently,” you snark. 

Marc’s eyes are soft, his mouth tilted up just enough for you to recognize a smile. 

His head is bent over yours, impossibly close and not close enough. 

He glances down and curses, “Oh, fuck,” he stoops to pick up your bouqet of flowers. “I think I ruined your flowers.” 

You take them back gently, some of the blooms drooping and bent where before they hadn’t been. “They’re beautiful. Who likes perfect flowers anyways?” You shrug. “Boring.” 

Marc’s head tips to the side again, listening to a voice you can’t hear for the moment, “Steven is…very excited.” 

“Has he been telling you to-,”

Marc closes his eyes, jaw twitching at whatever Steven was saying to him. He nods, then looks at you, “Yeah. Since he realized. The day he asked you out at the museum.” 

“You were coaching that day weren’t you?”

“Only a little bit.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing and reach for Marc’s hand, “It was sweet. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.” You cradle the flowers in the crook of your arm and Marc takes your backpack before he tugs you close. 

He watches you carefully, eyes flicking over your face, and you’ve never seen him look so loose and open, like nothing was pressing at the back of his mind. “I like you too,” you murmur. “Just for the record.” 

The way Marc looks at you in that moment, you would have thought you’d hung the very moon and stars.