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syrma-sensei · 2 years

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Moon's Scarab → Ch. 6: Night Travellers.

Marc Spector x Layla El-Faouly.

pre-canon fic; based on the Marvel comics and Disney's series Moon Knight.

warning: violence, cursing, angst, smut maybe in the future (?), the majority of spoken Arabic in this story is in Egyptian dialect.

taglist: @kesskirata, @zinzinina, @psithurista, @urlocallsimp, @marcspectrr, @sherlolly-siya, @nowritingonthewall, @marcskywalker, @nyctophilic0vitnir...

tell me if you wanna be added to the taglist!

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° a/n: the song in this chapter is: Alf Leila Wa Leila (One Thousand and One Night) by the legendary Um Kulthum. Highly recommended to listen if you're fond of classic music.

Layla El-Faouly/Marc Spector

Layla El-Faouly gazes up at the dark sky. It's past midnight, and the moon is shining fully in the heart of the summer heavens. She smiles, leaning her head backwards as her hands set flat on the rooftop's floor.

She wears a sleeveless, cherry-red top, and a black pair of sweatpants, whereas her feet remain bare to the occasional summer breeze. Her coiled hair is loose, still slightly damp from the night shower she just took, a big crown of gorgeous, brown curls.

Her big eyes are still wandering the skies, hopping from a glimmering star to another. But every time, they go back to the white orb embedding the night sky.

The Moon is Al-Qamar in Arabic, or how the Egyptian prefer to call it; El-Amar. It's always been a place of fascination to Layla. That astral globe of silver gleam that illuminates the sky within the night. Even her name Layla has something to do with the moon; which means night darkness, that cradles the moon while it wallows in the cosmos.

“Ya habibi... my love,” A rich and resonant voice echoes from Layla's phone, “El-Leil wo samah, wo nujomo, wo amaro, wo saharo... The night and its sky, and its stars and moon, and its vigil,” The singer continues, “Enta wo ana... you and I,”

“We just ran outta tea,” Layla smiles as she hears Marc's steps on the staircase, “Remind me to buy some tomorrow, would ya?”

She looks at him as he emerges from the shadows, carrying a tray with an Arabian tea set on it. Just like her, he's wearing casual and comfy clothes; a sleeveless, dark shirt, and a pair of grey sweatpants.

“Yeah, sure,” Layla says as Marc lays the tray on the floor and sits, cross-legged, next to her.

Layla glances at the tray and grins, “Marc... what are those?”

The latter looks at her puzzled. He follows her gaze on the tray, then clears his throat, “Marshmallows...?"

“Yeah...” Her girn widens, “But what happened to "no sugars under this roof" rule tho?”

Marc smirks playfully, “Well, if you put it that way... we're practically on the roof,” She giggles. “Plus, you worked hard the past few days.”

“Well, thanks to you, Couch Spector.” With dialect fingers, Layla plucks a piece of the fluffy candy and stuffs it in her mouth. A small moan escapes her throat as the delectable savour tickles her taste buds. Although she's an athletic person, Layla is fond of sugars; she just can't help it, her weak spot for marshmallows.

“You earned it tho. But you're welcome anyway, Miss El-Faouly.” Marc smiles a bit and Layla swoons just like the candy in her mouth.

Layla knows that Marc isn't flattering her when he said she earned it, because first of all: he doesn't do sweet talks, that's what she worked out of the time she spent with him in the past couple of weeks. Second: he literally made her see hell in those two weeks.

When Layla moved in with him to the safe house he currently resides at, Marc worked hard on making zero interaction with her. He didn't speak to her unless it was necessary despite her obvious efforts to communicate with him.

Marc just couldn't. Yes, sure, he promised to find out the truth about the link between her father and The Committee, because he feels terrible about the matter. He's bound to that, for if he does so, it may lift something off of his chest. And when it's all done, he's going to confess to Miss El-Faouly his horrible crime and what he did to her father and the rest of his team, then will disappear and will never show his face ever to her again, and if he's lucky enough and she's fast enough, she'd take revenge and kill him on the spot —and he'd let her— and release him from this torture, and send him right into hell where he truly belongs. Yes, that's what a killer eventually deserves.

Furthermore, Marc seldom feels comfortable in a constant feminine presence. Or not used to it is more like it. Sure, he has his fair share of night-stands every once in a while. But fuck, the first —and last— serious relationship he had with a girl was when he was still at high school. Her name is Marlene Alraune, a Canadian girl he met at a school party; one of those times when he managed to escape his mother's violent hand and actually lived his life as a normal adolescent. She was pretty and smart, has gorgeous blond hair and remarkable body. He still remembers how anxious he felt when she confessed her crush on him after they hung out together multiple times, and still remembers the fragments of the grand happiness he once felt at the time when knew his feelings were mutual. He thought she might be the one to save him from the hell his mother organised. He believed she might see him for what he truly is, just a boy who wanted to be loved. Fuck, he even lost his virginity to her. However, and as it turned out, Marlene wasn't the one for Marc. She was too demanding, pressuring, and sometimes inconsiderate. How humiliated she made him feel every time she claimed he embarrassed her in front of her friends, but he might done so. Given his strict upbringing in religious Jewish house, as a son of a rabbi. How often she'd tell him that's his mother is right, and he's worthless, and only she made him of value; the popular girl's pet. But all that came to an end when he signed up for the military, after that he didn't hear of her ever since. And from henceforth, he never got serious with any woman, only fleeting flings here and there. Even that has reduced significantly when he became Moon Knight. It's as though this side of his life is as screwed just as the rest of it. Perhaps, indeed, what his mother and Marlene had said is true, that he's just scum who's now seeking any kind of atonement in taking the cape of Moon Knight although he hates it. But it's not his place to hate his only way of salvation, is it?

“If you should lay with women, then lay with women,” His god had once told him, when he felt the slightest of his avatar's uneasiness and turbulence, he thought he needed some kind of ventilation, “That's none of my concern, Marc Spector.” Khonshu doesn't mind actually, or doesn't really care more to it, as long as Marc is cautious not to knock up some woman. The most important thing is not to be deflected from his duties as protector of night travellers.

Nevertheless, and even though he is aware of the fact that no wind blows in one's ship's favour, one day he broke his oath to himself. The oath of protecting the doctor's daughter as long as she's under his wing, to protect her from himself. He had to. When he accidentally glimpsed at the crack of the training room. He saw her silhouette, and heard her snarls and grunts. He knew what she was up to; she was training. Marc allowed himself to watch her, he took advantage of her being bogged down in her training, and slithered in utmost stealthiness into the room and watched. She was wearing a sleeveless top and shorts pants, and her hands were covered by white wrappings.

She has a remarkable body, as graceful as a doe's, but something was wrong, her movements were erratic, amateur. That stirred great upset in him to the point of irritation; her moves are so clashing with the agility of her body. And before he could stop himself, his mouth beat him to it.

“What are you doing?” Marc found himself utter.

Layla flinched; clearly, she wasn't aware of his presence before as she was too busy kicking the shit out of the punching bag.

“Umm... training?” She shrugged her shoulders, picking the water bottle up from the table to drink.

When Marc got a closer look at her, he wished he didn't. Under the lights of the room, her olive skin was glowing beneath a layer of fresh sweat, and her coiled hair was tied up in an elegant yet messy pony tail. She looked... beautiful, roughed up, but utterly and purely beautiful. Marc's breathing grew short. He gulped, but his usual furrow didn't leave.

“Do you call that training?” He crossed his arms as his voice came out curt, jeering.

Layla rolled her eyes, “Well, yeah, that's what they taught us at the gym.”

“Must be a really shitty gym then.” His tone remained cold.

Layla raised an eyebrow at him, “Yeah, right,” She nodded quizzically, “You're saying this just because I'm a woman?”

“No,” Marc answered firmly, “Because what you're doing is shit.”

The twitch of her perfect brow didn't go unnoticed by him. She turned her head away for a moment, muttering something in Arabic that he couldn't quite catch, before she darted upon him in a sudden onslaught. Fortunately enough, his normal reflexes didn't betray him this time, and with a swift twist of his arm, he rendered her motionless on the ground. He made sure the impact wasn't hard though as he crouch right above her head, both of her hands clasped in his large grip. Layla groaned and huffed in his face as it was just inches from hers.

Marc stilled for a moment. The sudden proximity to her made his knees buckle without solid reason. His eyes rammed her face quickly, to finally be ensnared by hers. Her usual sweet odour was mingled with the smell of training sweat.

A ghost of a smirk slipped into his lips as her attempt to wriggle out of his grasp failed, “Like I said: khara.”

She huffed a laugh, “Fi wishak,” [In your face]

Marc snored a bit and Layla laughed. The latter took advantage of this and swung her arms in order to push him down and lock him between her legs. But again, he was faster than her as he had her wrists behind her back after he flipped her over her stomach. Layla whined at her utter defeat.

“You let your movements control you more than you control them,” He commented, “You won't survive if you only rely on instincts.” He stoop up and extended his hand for the panting woman.

“But I saw your style, it's worse than mine.” She remarked, accepting his offered hand.

He let the fact that she'd been watching him training slide as he shook his head, “Yeah, but normally I have a suit that heals me and stitches my wounds close. You won't.”

“Kept me alive all this time tho,” She quirked her brows haughtily, and a sting flushed within the beatings of his heart.

“Yeah,” He said, “Last time didn't go quite well for ya, did it?”

Layla groaned, rolling her eyes, “Okay, fine! I get it! You're super cool and have super cool superpowers.”

He grimaced, “Hey, true that's the suit enhances my abilities and heals me up, but not everything comes from it.”

Layla huffed a sarcastic laugh, “Ya Allah, oh God! You're more arrogant than I originally thought.” She shook her head.

Marc's face dropped, a horrible feeling making the muscles of his shoulders ache. He watched Layla untie her ponytail and tie it again in a graceful manner. He pursed his lips thinly before stating.

“It's not so cool when it sucks the life out of you.”

Layla froze, and turned her body to fully face him now, “What do you mean?”

“Imagine with me, your fragile human body is possessed by godly powers. It takes every bit of your energy to cope with it well.” Marc answered, spite visible in his voice.

Layla blinked, whispering, “You didn't choose to be The Protector Soldier of The Moon?”

“The what?”

“You don't know what the hieroglyphics decorating your own suit mean, do you?” There was both shock and disappointment in her voice. Marc felt a bit uneasy. “Damn, you really don't.”

Marc looked at her in puzzlement, “When I took the cape of the moon... He called me his Moon Knight.”

Marc was taken by the way Layla's eyes sparkled and by the her lips stretched in a wide smile. “But of course!” She exclaimed, smashing a grip into her other palm, “The word Knight didn't exist in ancient Egyptian languages!” Her glimmering eyes snapped back to him, “God, this is brilliant, Marc!”

The latter found himself scratching the back of his neck, a very slight blush rising to his cheeks, “It is?”

“You don't see it, do you, Mr. Spector?” Layla smiled at him knowingly, “You're a soldier of a god, Marc, a guardian of people. You... you defend the weak and venge the wronged.” Layla let a laugh of excitement, “You give people hope...”

And hope he is indeed, at least for Layla El-Faouly he is. Her dad died at the moon's tomb, and the moon's knight saved her, and still keeping her safe, and helping her to find out the truth about her baba. If not that a sign, she doesn't know what that is then.

“Ya habibi... my love,” The singing voice exclaims, “Yallah ne'esh fi oyoun el-leil, wo no'ol le ashams ta'ali ba'ad sana, mush abl sana... Let's live together, in the eyes of the night, and tell the sun to come after a year, not before a year,”

Layla notices Marc staring at her, and the moment he's aware of that he tears his eyes off of her. He clears his throat, jutting his chin in Layla's phone's direction.

“Um Kulthum, right?” He questions.

Layla's eyes brighten, “Aywah, yeah. It's Alf Leila Wa Leila, one of my favourites.”

“Mine is Al-Atlal.” Marc smiles.

“Oh, so you listen to her?” She gives him a gentle smile of her own.

“Yeah, I mean who wouldn't listen to Kawkab El-Sharq, Star of the East?” He shrugs, but deep down, there's a hope huddling within his chest that he may impress her by that.

“Do you understand the full lyrics tho?” Marc picks up on the curious sparkle in her dark eyes. He's pleased.

“Yeah, kinda,” He drawls, scratching his chin mindlessly, “I speak Egyptian Arabic pretty well as far as you know.”

She nudges his arm playfully, “Show-off.”

He chuckles, “Your English is perfect by the way.”

Layla feels the heat raise to her face all of the sudden, this is the second compliment he says tonight, and it makes no better. She tugs a curl behind her ear nervously.

“Thanks,” Layla sips from her tea, “I speak French too,”

She face-palms herself internally. Why did I say that?! It's completely unnecessary!

Marc's forehead creases, his hand behind his head scratching his scalp, “I speak Hebrew and Yiddish,” He glances down at his Megan David. “Obviously,”

“Obviously.” She hums delightfully, and for a moment, Marc feels a pressing urge to kiss her lips; the way they pursed so delectably in a small smile, he craves to have a taste. Desperate for their touch on his. But his lips press against the rim of his tea cup, nevertheless.

Layla learnt about his Jewishness by accident, when they were having a training wrestle. His pendant hurled out when she managed to throw him onto the ground and straddling him. He was too astonished to notice his necklace was visible to her eyes.

“That's a win for me!” She cheered, a giddy smile adorning her perfect lips.

Marc grunted, “Yeah, there's a first for everything.” He rolls to his right thigh as Layla got off of him.

“You make it sound as if it's my first and last win against you.” She teased.

Marc's eyes widened when he realized his David Star is shimmering on his chest. “Yeah, we're done for today.” He said absentmindedly, and swept out of the room as she began to unfold the wrappings around her fists and wrists.

Late that night, when they sat at the table to have dinner, or late lunch, together. Mulukhya and rice, cooked by Layla herself. After years of running away from his home, depending on himself entirely, Marc of course had to feed himself; the crap he cooks and eats developed an astounding talent of detecting the good cooking and savouring it. It's one of the fewest things he let himself enjoy from time to time. Meat is something Marc appreciates the most in food. He doesn't know how Layla could perfect such skill, but he had to admit, she does it well, and maybe too well that he was so immersed in his dish when she asked him.

“So, you're a Jew.” He stilled; he knew how most Arabs reacted to Jews.

He gulped down the food in his mouth before answering, “Kinda.”

Layla chuckled a bit, and he felt a coil at the tip of his stomach, “You have a problem with that?”

Layla shook her head, “No, not at all. But I find it a bit ironic.”

Marc raised an eyebrow, “How so?”

“You're Jewish, and an avatar of an Egyptian deity.”

Marc caught her drift and nodded, “My God abandoned me a long time ago, so I didn't see any reason why not to abandon him as well and adhere to another.”

Marc's voice came out cold and solemn, a mask he learnt to wear when a train of awful memories of his past life would come gushing into his mind.

Where was his God when Randall, a child, had to drown and die. Where was He when his mother showed him hell throughout the years. And where are his proclaimed soldiers? His father was one of them, but he was too weak to snatch him out of his misery. Where was this God when Marc tried to save Abdullah El-Faouly's life against the greed of his partner. But Khonshu was there, and he gave him his life back. He rather serves a cruel god than an indifferent one.

“I have issues with him too, y'know.” Layla commented, bringing him back to their lunch. “Allah...”

“Oh, you do?”

“I've been raised by a Muslim father.” She replied, “Even though baba did believe in the existence of other deities, but his faith in Allah didn't waver.”

“But... shouldn't a Muslim deny other gods?”

“Pretty much so,” Layla confirmed, “But baba believed that denying other gods do not necessarily erase their presence.”

“Oh,” Marc raised an amused eyebrow, “Wish mine had been that open-minded about the matter.”

“Why?” Layla shook her head a bit.

“My father is a rabbi.” Marc said blankly, “He's the sweetest and gentlest man I've ever known. But when it comes to faith, he's the strongest of all.”

“Well, if you put it that way... the two are pretty similar in that regard.” Layla chuckled.

“Can't disagree.” Marc let a chuckle of his own.

“Marc...”

“Yes, Layla?”

“We are gonna catch them, right?”

A small smile crept into Marc's lips. “Yes, we are.”

“Di laylat hob helwa be alf leila wo leila... This is a beautiful love night, worth of one thousand and one night.” Um Kulthum's sonorous voice continues, “Bkul el-omr, howa el-omr eh gher leila zay el-leila... In one's lifetime, what is a lifetime if not this night...”

“You know, I don't think you work alone, Marc.” Layla says, after swallowing another piece of marshmallow.

“What gives you such idea? I have a god by my side.” Marc raises an eyebrow, pouring tea for the both of them.

“You're more of a field kind of individual.” She thanks him for the cup and continues, “You must have a man behind the screen, do the gods of Egypt know how to hack security systems and stuff of the sort?”

“Oh,” Marc grins playfully, “Yes, I do, have that one.”

“Mind I meet them?” Layla sips from her tea.

Marc chuckles, imaging how Frenchie would react if he were to meet Layla. He'd absolutely freak out, and scold him for being such a reckless idiot, and he is an idiot. But Marc thinks he'd hit it off with Layla immediately.

“I think you're gonna meet him at some point, yes.”

Layla smiles before gazing up at the moon again. Marc follows and he plunges into the sky with her. For once, he feels like one of travellers of the night he's complied to protect. And he finds the night sky unexpectedly alluring.

Marc feels Layla's hand touching his, and he doesn't flinch away. But in contrary, he welcomes her warmth, her scent, her presence next to him.

“Ezzay awseflak ya habibi ezzay, able ma hebbak kunt ezzay kunt wlla imbareh fakrah... How should I describe to you how, my life before I loved you, how was I, how I don't remember yesterday... Wlla andi bukra astnnah, wlla hatta yomi ayshah, khadtini behobbak fi ghamdet ein, warrtni halawet el-ayyam fin, wel-leil ba'ad ma kan ghurba malletu aman... I didn't have a tomorrow to wait, I can't even live within my current day, you took me in your love in a blink of an eye, you showed me the beauty of the days, and the night is no longer a stranger under your protection...”

The moment she squeezes his hand, the singing of Um Kulthum gets interrupted and replaced by the ringtone of her phone. Layla draws her hand away and picks her phone up. “Sorry.”

He shrugs and waves his hand as she picks the call.

“Aywah ya Usama?” [Yes, Usama?]

Marc keeps looking at her. The smile adorning her face vanishes, her eyes go wide. “What?!” She stands up from her place on the floor, and Marc follows her.

“I'm on my way.” Layla says before hanging up.

“What happened?”

Layla gulps, shock still from whatever she just received. “Our leader, Khaled Mahmoud.” Tears gather in her big eyes, “They killed him.”

“Fuck.” Marc hisses.

“Marc...” She inhales, “They've taken his daughter as a hostage as well.”

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