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genderqueerstevengrant · 3 years ago

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got weird

marc and layla’s first kiss, pre-canon.

title from dodie’s song, got weird.

Marc lifts his head enough to finally catch a look at her face. Layla. Of course it's layla. Thank God, it’s Layla.

“You’re beautiful,” He mumbles goofily, a smile spreading across his face.

“And you’re drunk,” She adjusts her grip and quickens her pace. “Mind using your legs for me?”

“Hey!” He protests, shaking his head. “I am not drunk!”

“Yeah?” She glances at him, eyebrow raised. “What do you call this, then?”

Marc thinks, furrowing his brow in deep thought and concentration. “Temporary discombobulation.”

words: 3k

tags: pre-canon, first kiss, getting together, dissociation, mentions of alcohol and drunkenness

Marc gets the feeling that if he wasn’t already buzzed, the bar would be too much for him.

It’s loud, and there’s flashing lights, and it’s too warm for him to be wearing a jacket like this. thankfully, the liquor he’s had has dulled his senses enough to the point where he can tune it all out and focus on running his index finger around the lip of his whiskey.

He wonders if this glass is the right type to sing. He continues to run his finger lazily around the rim, staring at the amber liquid inside.

The counter around him is littered with empty glasses, far too many for any normal man to have and still be conscious, but he’s not a normal man.

Never really have been good at normal, he thinks, taking a swig from the glass and tapping it gently on the counter a few times before setting it down. Even before the moonlighting as a fist of vengeance.

Moonlighting and moon knighting, a dormant voice in the back of his head giggles.

He lets out a single huff of almost-laughter and knocks back the rest of the drink, fire burning in his esophagus. He holds up the empty glass, signaling to the bartender for another.

Someone grabs the glass out of his hand.

“That’s enough self-destruction for one night,” She hums into his ear, tapping a spot between his shoulder blades that sends a shiver up and down his spine.

“Knight?” Marc mumbles into his forearm, face drunkenly contorted as he struggles to process the noises around him.

She hauls him up, slinging his arm over her shoulder. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“No!” He protests, struggling weakly. “Come on, just one more?”

“Absolutely not,” She says, sliding some cash over to the bartender and nodding goodbye. “We’ve been here for far too long as it is.” She shoves his limp body towards the door, voice straining as she carries him. “Let’s go.”

Marc lifts his head enough to finally catch a look at her face. Layla. Of course it's layla. Thank God, it’s Layla.

“You’re beautiful,” He mumbles goofily, a smile spreading across his face.

“And you’re drunk,” She adjusts her grip and quickens her pace. “Mind using your legs for me?”

“Hey!” He protests, shaking his head. “I am not drunk!”

“Yeah?” She glances at him, eyebrow raised. “What do you call this, then?”

Marc thinks, furrowing his brow in deep thought and concentration. “Temporary discombobulation.”

“Big word there, champ,” Layla teases, rolling her eyes. “How temporary is it?”

The night air hits them, and Marc can feel the moonlight. He straightens a little.

BAH, he hears Khonshu's voice reverberate in his skull. OVERINDULGING AGAIN, ARE WE?

Marc sneers at the crescent-shaped shadow under him.

THIS ATTITUDE IS VERY UNBECOMING OF YOU, MARC SPECTOR.

Marc sticks out his tongue.

Layla turns a corner into a dimly lit alley, and Marc shuffles out of her grip.

He leans against the brick, and Layla puts her hands on her hips. “Not drunk. For sure, Marc. Very believable.”

He holds up a finger and catches his breath for a moment before standing straight and channeling his remaining concentration into summoning the suit.

He can hear Khonshu’s indignant squawking as the armor covers him. His vision unblurs, the warm fuzzy feeling disappears.

Pros of being sober: senses return to normal.

Cons of being sober: senses return to normal.

Marc blinks a little, the light suddenly too bright, the buzzing of the streetlamps too loud. Back to normal.

Layla stares at him, unimpressed.

“See?” He says, willing the cowl and mask away. “Not drunk.”

“That’s a very immature use for magical god-armor,” Layla huffs, her amusement disguised badly with a stony glare.

I CONCUR, Khonshu adds huffily. WHEN I CHOSE YOU AS MY AVATAR, I DID NOT EXPECT YOU TO ENGAGE IN SUCH… FRIVOLITY.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Marc glances up at the shape of his god, crescent staff casting an invisible shadow over his face.

BAH, Khonshu grumbles.

Marc dispels the rest of the suit and dusts himself off.

“Nice party trick,” Layla shakes her head. “I got what we came here for, now let’s get out of here.”

“Good job,” He congratulates her.

She grunts in return, picking at the corner of the note in her hand.

This mission is a never ending treasure hunt, but it’s made more bearable with companions to commiserate with.

Layla makes the red herrings and dead ends bearable.

They start again, and marc tucks his hands into his pockets, fiddling with the seam.

“Where’s frenchie?” He asks absently after a moment of silence.

“Out,” Layla huffs.

“Out?” Marc repeats. Details, please?

“Out.” Layla says with finality. “There’s plenty of bars in this town.”

Marc nods, not understanding her meaning. He doesn’t ask anything more.

The walk back to their rental place is slow and ambling. They pass by a little park, almost empty at this time of night. A bench, empty under a shaft of light looks inviting.

Marc sits down and pats the spot next to him.

Layla crosses her arms, making a confused face. Or is it annoyed? Marc can’t tell.

“The view is nice,” He says, hoping that will convince her. Or make her less annoyed. Layla does love a pretty view.

She sits down next to him, close enough that their thighs touch. Just slightly.

Marc wonders if it’s purposeful. She’s still got that face on, so maybe it was accidental, but-

She glances over to him, and her face softens.

“You’re right,” She smiles. “It is a nice view.”

She turns her head back to the landscape, leaving Marc with more questions than answers.

Was she talking about me? He blinks a few times, not quite processing. He wishes he was still drunk.

Layla stands after a while, and holds out her hand. “It’s getting late. We have work to do tomorrow.”

Marc takes her hand, and for an electric and silent moment, they just are.

She really is beautiful. Haloed by artificial light, wearing light and stylish clothing, curls pulled back into a clip in the style of beetle wings. She’s otherworldly, almost.

Beautiful. It’s the only way to describe her with the words that he has.

He doesn’t deserve her.

She pulls him up, and he drops her hand, heat rising between his ribs. She hangs on with her little finger.

He doesn’t know how to feel right now.

She leads the way back to the rental room, dropping his hand as they pass by streets with the occasional cluster of drunk and stoned young adults.

He can respect that. Their business is theirs. Not anyone else’s.

So why did it feel so gut wrenching when she did it?

The rest of the walk is done in silence.

Marc kicks off his shoes and stands in the darkened room, stepping out of the way as layla pushes past him to ready herself for sleep.

He sighs, rubs his face, and makes his way to the sliding door leading outside.

Marc leans against the railing of the balcony, staring out at the city, yellow lights peeking out of buildings and casting cones against the pavement.

He isn’t sure how much time he spends there, staring out at the bustle of people out too late.

Layla quietly walks up behind him, leaning against the doorframe.

“Can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head.

“Me either,” She sighs, stretching her arms above her head.

Marc looks away as her shirt rides up, revealing a line of midriff.

She walks up next to him and leans on her forearms, folding her hands gently, gazing out at the scene.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Marc blurts.

She gives him a sidelong glance.

“You are beautiful.”

Her expression shifts imperceptibly. Marc purposefully doesn’t read into it.

She hangs her head and smiles. “Thanks.”

Marc doesn’t look away.

“You too,” she says after a moment, a wide smile cracking her face and squinting her eyes. The breeze blows a curl into her face.

Marc doesn’t hear her, not really. “What?”

“You too,” she repeats, nudging his arm gently with her elbow.

“M- me too?”

“Yes,” she says, gently slapping his shoulder, fondness dripping from her voice like honey, golden and sweet and- “you too.”

“Wh-“ he can’t really remember what he was saying. “What am I, too?”

Layla smiles gently, moonlight and reflections from the city lighting her face with silver and gold.

“You’re beautiful,” she says it plainly, as if it’s the simplest truth in the world.

Marc doesn’t believe her. How could he? He’s never been anything close to beautiful.

His heart stops when she takes his hand.

When he died back in the desert, it was cold and hard and unforgiving.

Her touch is a different kind of death.

Something warm and blossoming.

Heat worms its way between his ribs and drips into his stomach, and his lungs stop working for a minute.

He takes a deep, sudden breath, and it’s like he’s revived again. He doesn’t feel shackles, not this time, more like a key slotted into place in his heart. The air is fresh, and it’s cold and it wakes him up from the warm drunken stupor of her touch.

She’s still looking at him.

“What?” He whispers, a smile creeping onto his face. She’s smiling. He doesn’t know why.

“What is it?” He examines the details of her face, looking for any clue of what her expression means.

He doesn’t realize he leaned in.

He feels her warmth against his chest, her weight against him, her hands on his shoulder, his leg-

Her lips are on his.

She’s holding him, he’s holding her, their lips are together, and-

She’s pulled away.

Marc blinks.

She looks away, face red, and she wipes her mouth guiltily.

“Sorry.” She tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Layla-“

“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbles. She shuffles away slowly. “I just- I’ll just.”

“Layla,” marc repeats, gentle as her touch.

“I’ll just go,” she says, making towards the door.

His hand slips into hers. “Layla, wait.”

She jerks her head around.

Marc’s hand twitches a little, and their fingers slot together. Slowly. Carefully.

They’re frightened animals, the pair of them, terrified to make a move too sudden or take a step too close, lest the other run away.

“Marc,” she says quietly, her breath gentle on his cheek.

He stops for a moment, desperately trying to muster the courage to close the gap.

And she’s kissing him again.

He blinks, and she pulls back, eyes taking in his facial expression. He doesn’t know if it’s unreadable, but she takes it as a cue to lean back in. She presses her lips firmly into his, fingers tightening around his hand.

He tilts his head, leaning into the motion cautiously.

And like flint and steel, something sparks.

She kisses him, again, again, again, intensity building, and he’s riding this wave of emotion and heat that’s building in his chest, burning red and hot, and-

He’s against the doorframe. When did he get there? Doesn’t matter, really, when she’s this close and her lips are on his, the rest of the world could fall away and they’d still be there, and that would be the only important thing.

Something flutters in his hearing, ancient parchment and tattered wrappings and creaking bones, and he couldn’t care less what that bastard of a bird god could think right now.

He shuts his eyes, letting Layla hold him, and he sticks an arm out, flipping a different kind of bird towards the sky.

HMPH, is all he hears before the echoing noises of omnipotence leave his mind. For the time being, at least.

He feels layla’s hands slide down his arms, down to his hips, and-

Oh my God, did she just pick me up?

He doesn’t really have time to process that Layla has lifted him off the ground before they’re moving, towards the bed, and he feels like he’s traveling at light speed.

She sets him down near the bed, and he stumbles a little on the tile. She pulls away, her face flushed and eyes sparking with the fire lit between them. Marc is too kiss-drunk to feel ashamed that he leans in a little to chase the feeling of her lips on his.

She smirks, and god she is beautiful.

She walks up to him and slides her leg between his, making him lose balance.

He falls on his ass on the mattress. She laughs, clambering onto his lap, legs splayed out on either side of him.

He’s dizzy, like he’s been beaten to a pulp, but there’s no clamoring crowd, no bell ringing, his hands don’t sting, his face doesn’t throb, there’s no fluorescent lights shining starbursts into his eyes.

He’s just near a supernova, he has to be.

Who put this fire in his chest, who thought it would be a good idea to pour gasoline on it?

When she kisses him, he feels like he’s free. The shackles of his servitude, the chains of his past, they feel a little lighter when she kisses him, again, again, again, again-

He’s flat on the mattress now, and his shirt is up and over his chest, and her hands are hot embers, hotter than the sun, burning brighter than it, blue, ultraviolet, even.

He settles his hands delicately on her hips, soaking in the sunshine she generates, even in a darkened room.

What’s that thing that Shakespeare wrote?

What light through yonder window breaks, or something.

It is the east, and Layla is the sun. She’s the world, the sun, the stars-

(But not the moon, never the moon, it’s too inconstant and fickle for her. She deserves something better than a cobwebbed bird with a superiority complex.)

He’s burning brightly, only reflecting a fraction of her light, really. Like a copper wire, black tarmac in summer, a metal radiator, a million other things, only hot by association.

Her lips leave his, and he’s never known what suffocating truly felt like until now, he feels like he needs her with him forever, and-

She kisses his cheek, his jaw, down, lower, his neck, his collarbone, he feels lightheaded.

She kisses again, again, again, gently, delicately, her hand sliding back into his, so warm and bright that Marc can’t help but sigh in contentment.

If she’s the sun, then who is he? Nothing more than a meteor, burning up in her light-

No, he’s the moon, dark, full of secrets and shadows and lies, he doesn’t deserve this, what if she sees who he really is, he has to

Get out, get out, get out,

She can’t see me like this.

Get out, get out, get out,

I don’t want to hurt her too.

Get out,

I can’t handle this,

Get out,

You ruin everything you touch.

GET OUT.

Marc stumbles on the stairs, catching himself against a wall.

How did he get here?

You walked out on layla, needed to catch some air.

Right, of course.

He walked out on layla.

Heat still burns inside him, but it’s no longer tamed like it was with layla. It’s raging. Out of control, prickling his face and rushing his blood and sending every neuron firing at once.

He crumples.

You really needed an out, huh, jefe?

“Shut up,” He snarks back, too exhausted and overwhelmed to come up with anything more clever.

Whatever voice was inside his head decides to take the hint.

The concrete is cold and damp with dew and the whole stairwell smells of stale cigarettes and sweat.

Marc’s train of thought keeps skipping backwards, to when she kissed him again and again and again and-

The fireworks display in his chest is threatening to swallow him whole. His stomach churns a little.

He stands up, if wound like a toy, and starts pacing the landing of the stairs. Back and forth and back and forth, fingers trailing against the rough material of the wall.

Back and forth,

The way she smiled at him, honey and sunshine and-

Back and forth,

How she kissed him,

Back and forth,

Smooth and delicate as anything, like handling a flower or something worth protecting,

Back and forth and back and forth,

Her lips on his, his neck and shoulders and cheek, the feeling etched into his brain and her kisses marked in burning heat against his skin.

He panics for a moment, and shakes himself out like a wet dog instinctually.

He stands there, silent, breathing heavily, completely alone in this brightly lit stairwell, panicking that he got kissed.

He got kissed a lot.

He rubs the back of his neck hard, staring solidly at the ground as he feels his pulse quicken and his face heat up.

How is he going to go forward with this? He just made out with Layla, the woman he’s gotta work with for the foreseeable future, he can’t just… leave.

He could.

But that would interfere with his…

A crescent-shaped shadow creeps out from under his feet.

Other mission.

But does that really matter now? What is he thinking, of course it matters. It’s the only reason he’s still alive in the first place.

But what he wouldn’t give to forget that, really forget it for an hour and just-

Abandon the weight that turns his shoulders to iron, that makes his days hazy and blurry, that has him waking up screaming, just to live for once.

Clearly I’ve got shit to figure out, He sighs, running a hand over his face and through his hair.

He’d rather not do that right now.

He stumbles back into the wall and slides to the ground, curling into a little ball in the corner.

It’s not like he can just… go back up there after freaking out and bolting. Besides, he’s slept in weirder places before.

The resolution to this situation is something that he can worry about later. He’s too overwhelmed, too drained, the fire in his chest too bright to think over right now.

He just pulls his legs tighter around himself and tucks his chin to his chest. He can at least pretend to sleep.

#marc spector #layla el faouly #marc x layla #my writing

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