#all because Khonshu simply wouldn’t let Marc rest

[sarahghetti]

blood on your lies; m.s.

pairing: marc spector x reader centric, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: after an argument with marc, you go missing. he tears himself apart trying to find you.

warnings: a dive into the mind of marc spector, angst, hurt with some comfort (i.e. jake and steven), kidnapping, vague descriptions of violence.

word count: 3.0k

notes: kind of a continuation of all the echoes in my mind, but can be read as a standalone. written as part of the @moonknight-events bingo! prompt: "insecure", I promise that not all my entries will be this sad lol

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You’re not home yet.

It’s nearly been three hours. Marc paces the apartment like a caged animal, likely wearing the hardwood underneath his feet. Steven and Jake have run their course about how stupid he is, how he shouldn’t have said what he said, how he should’ve run after you the second you stepped out the door—

But jokes on them. There can be no harsher critic of Marc than Marc himself.

He checks his phone again in case you’ve responded to his many texts and calls, but there’s nothing. As far as he knows, you haven’t even seen any of it.

His temper still lingers under their skin, and he holds it tight with both hands; anger is easy. It’s easier than admitting that the peaks in his heartrate and the sweat on his brow is from anything other than his own self-flagellation.

Anger is familiar.

This, however? The waiting for you to walk through the door, or to give them any sign of life—so much of his sanity rests in the comfort of you being safe. Marc didn’t realize how lucky he was to not know what this was like. Now, he doesn’t know if he can ever forget it.

Jake’s voice is clipped. “Check again.”

They’re all on edge, and it’s terrible. Most of the time, at least one of them manages to keep a level head during stressful situations—usually Marc. Jake is prone to anger, Steven to anxiousness.

“Marc!” Steven yanks him out of his head, and his phone is in his hand without any memory of having taken it out of his pocket. He does a dutiful look through his notifications—nothing.

Three sets of disappointment and concern pile on top of one another and drags them all down so much further.

“Do…” Steven’s voice is quiet. Unsure. “Do you think something might’ve happened to her?”

There is no dissenting opinion, no devil’s advocate. Marc doesn’t try to calm his alters down, and only clenches his jaw.

You’ve never gone quiet on them like this. They’ve never let you leave the flat at night like this. They always opted to be the one to go take a walk because even in the middle of an argument, they wouldn’t risk your safety.

The lingering silence is Steven’s answer.

When the suit wraps itself around his body, the accompanying burst of power in his veins is suffocating. His wounds begin to numb over, but Marc barely notices. He hasn’t spared them a thought since you left.

The cool air does nothing to assuage him. Clouds blot out the sky, leaving nothing but a murky backdrop as he scales up the nearest building for a vantage point. A quick scan over the horizon—nothing. Not a hint of your silhouette under the streetlights, and a lump forms in his throat.

“Khonshu!”

A gust of wind signals the god’s arrival, who, even with a bird’s skull for a head, looks remarkably bored as Marc is clinging to any semblance of sanity. He must already know what’s going on but frustratingly just spreads out his hands, a silent question—what?

Marc grits his teeth. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Khonshu.” The name is a snarl on his lips.

He simply scoffs. “You have the gall to make demands? As if I need to be involved with your lover’s spat?”

“She’s not answering her phone.”

A lingering pause.

“She might be in danger,” Marc snaps, trying to get the god to understand even a fraction of the severity of the situation. They might bloody their hands night after night, staining London’s streets each time they go out on patrol, but it’s never enough. There are always more monsters to take their place, and the thought that you might have run into one of them—

Khonshu cocks his head. “Maybe she’s just finally had enough of you.”

Marc hates how that’s a possibility. Still, desperation crawls out of his throat. “Can you find her?”

Khonshu turns to look over the city, the silence stretching out between them. Whatever divinity he’s channeling, Marc isn’t privy to; all he can do is stand there like a useless dumbass and wait for some hint of you to show up on the god’s radar. Even if you had had enough and never want to see him again—he’ll swallow down that fate in stride as long as he knows that you’re safe.

When Khonshu finally breaks from searching, his head cocks slightly to the side. “Interesting.”

This is hardly the time for theatrics. “Do not—”

“I cannot find her,” the god admits. Not apologetic or ashamed, but—awed. “Where she is right now, her footsteps through the city—there is nothing, Marc Spector. There’s not even a trace of her in your own home.”

The blood rushes in his ears. His chest constricts until he can barely breathe at all. Marc barely manages to wrap his head around the information before Jake and Steven come roaring back again, shocked and confused.

“Stupid fucking bird—”

“She was right here!

“Let me out, pendejo, I swear—”

“What the bloody hell does he mean—”

“How?” Is all Marc manages to get out, every one of his senses on overload.

“Something is hiding her from me; whatever took your lover is very powerful indeed.”

Took. Not a single doubt about it now: something took you. Kidnapped you because Marc couldn’t keep it together for ten-fucking-minutes. Jake and Steven can prattle all they want in the background—his mission is clear.

“Where do we start?”

-

The flat seems even bleaker when they return, your absence all the more chilling. Steven clamours to take the reins with the obvious assumption that research is the first step they need to take, but that’s quickly dashed away when Khonshu returns with a name.

“Apep.” God of darkness and disorder, Steven supplies from their head. “He’s been cast away for eons, but there have always been those trying to get him to return.”

“It’s another cult?”

Jake swears under his breath. “Figures.”

Ignoring them, Marc presses on. “Who are we dealing with now?”

“If it were easy to find them, I would’ve done it already,” Khonshu bristles. “Apep is helping them—hiding them as they work. I will continue to do what I can.”

“Fine.”

The god disappears in a whirlwind of loose papers, and Marc switches gears. Steven might have the advantage in research, but tracking? The skills he’s honed as a Marine and as a mercenary wait for him like an old pair of shoes; the others can’t help but let him work in peace.

He finds some old tourist map that spans over the city and unfolds it across the dining table. There are only so many places you would’ve gone, so many routes you could’ve taken. London doesn’t become deserted at night and barring any divine intervention, kidnapping someone would cause a scene—you would have caused a scene, he thinks, imagining you fighting tooth and nail against your assailants, screaming for someone to help—

Marc closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. A wave of pain washes over him, and he languishes in it for a minute, not a moment more.

His eyes reopen, spots dancing across his vision as he analyzes the map again. The feeling has been sealed shut into a box, shoved into a corner of his mind. Steve would throw a fit about his mental state if it were any other time, lecturing him on coping mechanisms and compartmentalization, but there’s no time for him to feel sorry for himself.

He grits his teeth and refocuses his train of thought. If they’re up against a cult, then they probably would’ve sent multiple people to grab you. Would’ve had to lure you somewhere quiet if it was by force, or they could have convinced you to go with them somehow. Or threatened you. Or…

The more he gets into it, the more he feels himself detaching from the situation, piece-by-piece. The memory of you is like a minefield; it’s a testament to his will that he can recall anything about you without breaking down. What you were wearing—and not the look on your face—when you left. Your favourite park—and not how your hand fits perfectly into his as you walked down the paths—that you might have passed through.

He reduces you to intel, just another folder on his desk. It’s not unfamiliar to him. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he couldn’t take an objective approach to his work. But it’s different because it’s you, because the stakes include you, and when he looks up to try to ground himself again, he spots your favourite mug on the coffee table. Half-empty.

-

If Layla were here.

The words bounce around his head as Marc stares up at the ceiling. He didn’t mean it. Steven and Jake are both better with words than Marc, but he’s never loved you any less—he’s never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.

It’s been almost two days since you left, and it’s only now that he’s allowed himself to be corralled into bed. His grip of the hot seat is ironclad, however, which means that the body isn’t getting any sleep tonight. The sun will rise soon, and he’ll pick up his work right where he left off.

Quietly, from the back of his head: “Marc?”

“Could’ve taken the victim anywhere,” Marc murmurs, mind still whirring in the dark.

“’Victim’?” Steven’s voice shifts to be full of indignance. “How could you possibly call her that?”

“Ay, easy on him,” Jake pipes up. For Jake to immediately to jump to his defence means that Marc must be worse off than he thought, but he can’t bring himself to care. “How’s it going, hombre?”

“No sightings on any security cameras. Nothing reported to the cops.” Hours of his time—your time—summarized in a breath. His face remains blank. “I’m going to sweep the remaining areas tomorrow. Find some people who might’ve seen something.”

He’s been doing nothing but cross possibilities off his list. It’s barely any progress and his remaining leads are weak, but his resolve is as strong as ever.

“Nothing from Khonshu?”

“No.” Marc has no idea what the god is doing.

They lay in silence for a bit, listening to the maddening tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall. Anger is unsustainable, but Marc wishes that they’d return to yelling at him again. At least he knows what to do with that.

Instead, all he gets is Steven’s restrained tone: “Something has to change, you know.”

“Are you really telling me to go to therapy right now?”

“Can’t do much else.” For a moment, Steven’s bitterness resonates. There’s another conversation to be had here—one about their individual capabilities and protective natures—but Marc lets it rest for the night. He knows he’d be driven up the wall if their situation was reversed, if you were in danger and he had to rely on someone else to save you.

He still deflects. “Not the time for this.”

“Maybe not,” Steven concedes, “but you need help, Marc.”

Distantly, Marc recognizes that he’s always needed help. Even after reconciling with Steven and Jake, even after meeting you—the wounds are still there, despite how hard he’s tried to ignore them. He’s stubborn and self-destructive, not stupid.

“We’re with you, always,” Jake adds. Discomfort crawls under Marc’s skin from the supportive words, and he knows that his alters are well aware of it. It’s never stopped them, of course.

“We can talk about this after—after we save her.”

A general murmur of consensus. Marc quickly regains his footing, eager to move on from this line of conversation.

“I’ll find something. Or Khonshu will.” Steady and reassured—trying to convince them and himself. “We’ll get her back.”

Steven’s voice is small, even in the confines of their head. “But why would they take her in the first place?”

-

“He needs an avatar?” The body hasn’t slept in days. That void of feeling pulses with anger, desperation, fear—it simmers low in their gut, a torch passed along between them.

“Apep will need a vessel once they release him.”

“Here I thought one of his cultists would volunteer.”

Khonshu taps his staff against the ground thoughtfully. “They knew we would come after them, and we’re not the only ones.”

For the briefest of moments, Marc feels hopeful, like the odds aren’t as stacked against them as they thought. It disappears just as fast—Khonshu doesn’t deliver hope. The blood drains out of his face as he actually starts to consider the god’s words.

“If Apep possesses your precious lover, would you really be able to stop her? To take up arms against her?”

Khonshu leans in close then, hollowed eyes burrowing into him.

“Would you let others do the same?”

-

Over the next week, things begin to look up.

Someone’s girlfriend’s cousin says that they saw someone who looked like you walking down The Mall. There’s a fuzzy image of a car with no license plates. Khonshu catches the briefest hint of you on Westminster Bridge and follows you far, far east—it’s a mere grain of information that’s slipped through Apep’s power, but it’s enough for Marc.

They find the car abandoned in Dover, near the water. It rules out France—driving through the Eurochannel would’ve been the fastest route there, after all. Trying to take a public ferry would’ve been stupid with a captive, which means that they probably chartered or owned a boat.

The remaining pieces fall into place, and he can feel the anticipation from the others build in the background. Marc has led the charge so far with very few breaks to let Steven and Jake breathe a little. Steven misses you so much, he cries whenever he fronts. Jake has gone eerily quiet, and Marc knows what’s simmering underneath the surface; when the fighting starts, Jake will be called to action. His excitement is brutal.

It's all coming to an end soon. Laying on some dirt in the Norwegian countryside, shrouded in darkness, Marc’s never seen more stars in his life. If he’s right—and he is right—they’ll be bringing you to a nearby compound for the final step of their ritual. He couldn’t care less about the how or why. Come the morning, you’ll be here. Marc will get them inside. Jake will get to you. And then…

Marc will probably never be the partner that you deserve, and you never should’ve been subjected to his life. To sleepless nights and patching up his injuries and comforting him after nightmares that has him thrashing in the sheets—

But he can’t survive without you. It’s a simple little fact that gives him the power to move mountains; there are none bigger than the mess of his own head.

Exhaustion creeps up on him, and he can’t help but struggle against it. Fighting to keep his eyes open, his thoughts spill into the air. “Need to take care of her first.”

“Taking care of yourself is taking care of her,” Steven says gently. Have they had this conversation already? Marc’s been so singled in on this mission that everything else has fallen by the wayside. He can’t remember the last thing he ate, or what he’s wearing under the suit. The ground is the softest thing he’s ever felt.

If there’s any comparison to be made between you and Layla, it’s that he’s failed both of you. Maybe he could be different this time. Even if you decide that you want nothing to do with him after all this, he could still get help. He’ll have Steven and Jake. He’ll have himself and his scrappy resolve and the memories of this heart-aching pain, and maybe he’ll finally get better.

Marc lets his eyes close; the body needs rest for what’s to come. You don’t deserve any less than their best.

Just a few more hours.

-

Marc watches the fight from their headspace. Jake doesn’t miss a single shot and never so much as falters when one of them manages to land a hit. This is the longest break Marc’s gotten from fronting in a while, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

Jake loops their arm around the neck of cultist unlucky enough to be nearby, gripping his hair so hard Marc can nearly feel the strands through his fingers, feel it when Jake jerks their arm to the side and twists—

-

Your handlers left you alone in another room with nothing but a hard cot to curl into as you waited for them to retrieve you again. Locked inside but unbound—Marc hates how you startle when he breaks through the door.

Eyes wide, your mouth opens and closes multiple times without success. “You—you came.”

Marc wishes there weren’t so much surprise in your tone. Of course he came for you, it was never a choice for him—for any of them.

But clearly there was a part of you that thought he wouldn’t, wasn’t there? That he might just leave you in the clutches of some power-hungry cult because—because what, you’re not his ex-wife? Because you think he doesn’t love you?

The need to rectify that pierces his heart. He pulls you close, knuckles white in your shirt. “I love you.”

You shake in his arms. “Marc—”

“I love you.”

The words don’t stop; they fall from his lips like a prayer. Even as you weep, soaking the suit with your tears, he says it. I love you. I love you. I love you. In every variation, in every way—he’ll never let you believe otherwise again. He’ll say it over and over, work tirelessly to become the man you both deserve. For the rest of your lives. For the rest of time.

However long you’ll give him.

[age-of-moonknight]

Variant cover for Conan: Serpent War (Vol. 1/2020), #3 by Kim Jacinto.

[the-archxr]

just let me dream a little more

part one.

marc spector x female!reader

summary: after a long night of patrol in search of harrow, marc begins to head back to his hotel until he hears a sound he hasn’t heard in years. your laughter brings him home, and he just can’t help himself.

a/n: I fucking love moon knight, and I wanted to write a fic (cause good god, oscar isaac is a different breed), so after episode 3, I decided I was in my feelings and needed to bust out the saddest fucking thing ever (so, sorry in advance). Also, I may write a part two??

warnings: major angst, yearning, a fuck ton of yearning, like nothing happy happens, swearing, mentions of violence, a bad breakup, allusions to sex, idk spoilers?? (but nothing major ya feel) this does not have a happy ending

word count: 3k

main m.list | part two, part three

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•••

He almost doesn’t hear it.

The sound itself is so faint and so common that it could be easily mistaken for anything.

Maybe it was the laughter of a drunken club hopper. A police siren blaring way off in the distance. A cat rummaging through a garbage can in an alleyway. Or maybe it was just the wind—whistling and mocking him.

He could’ve mistaken it for any of those things. But he doesn’t.

Because when he hears it…truly hears it, his heart involuntarily contracts. Squeezes with everything it has and then releases.

He could blame it on the tiredness. The stress from the way Khonshu practically breathes down his neck; searching for Harrow; trying to locate Ammit’s tomb. It could all contribute to his recent lack of self-preservation and inability to focus on a single task. His body, right down to the marrow deep in his bones, aches with the exhaustion of the events of the past two weeks. So, it wouldn’t exactly be far from accurate to blame this moment simply on a rotting mind.

But his body, no matter how many days, weeks, or years it’s been, knows that sound.

He could recognize you anywhere.

He tells himself that he really shouldn’t look. For his sake. If his eyes don’t see you, then you don’t exist here. For all he knows you’re somewhere far, far away where he could never find you again. And if he doesn’t look, that’s where you’ll stay. It wouldn’t be hard to forget all about this; he’d be able to move on with his life. Get out of this fucking suit, slip back into his hotel room and drink himself until he crashes.

He’s done it before, he can do it again.

But that sound; that nagging in his chest; the recognition of your laughter alone tells him to stop.

Stay.

Look.

Just one peak, is all you need.

He’s still in the suit, that much he’s conscious of. So he’d have to stay here, tucked away from the rest of the world. After all, a mummy with a cape isn’t exactly something people expect to see, especially in the middle of the night. But he realizes, at least, you wouldn’t see him. If you were to catch his gaze and look into his bright white, glossed-over eyes beneath the mask, you wouldn’t recognize him.

You can’t see him.

So he risks it.

Creeping low to the rooftop, he inhales deep—cringes at how shaky it sounds—then looks over to the street below.

At first, he doesn’t see you. Instead, he watches what is a regular Saturday night in Cairo.

For a moment, he considers, that maybe he really has gone off his rails.

Bonkers, he can practically hear Steven quip.

But then he hears you again. This time, it’s clear as day. Loud and echoey, reverberating off the stone walls and his ribcage.

And when his eyes find you, actually see you for the first time in years, he finds he can no longer breathe.

“You really should quit, ya know.” You’re in a silky purple dress (it was his favourite colour on you, but that’s not important) leaning against the wall, looking at a dark-haired woman in a black dress—your friend, he assumes.

She pulls the cigarette out of her mouth and blows the smoke in the wind away from you.

“Well then maybe you should stop fuelling my addiction. Wouldn’t that make you a bad friend?”

The air between the two of you is teasing, but he bristles at the comment. Bad friend, my ass.

You are the furthest thing from a bad person.

Annoyance pricks at the back of his neck, until your easy reaction to the comment settles him in an instant. You shrug softly, probably used to the remarks; a sense of comfortable familiarity in the closeness with this stranger. And then he makes out, even in the pale moonlight and the dusty streetlights, the upward tick of your lips.

“I bought you dinner…and drinks.” You shuffle on your feet. “Wouldn’t consider that to be something a bad friend does.”

“Well I’m covering tomorrows hangover breakfast so…even?”

You laugh again, the sound carrying itself in the wind and smacking him in the face. Then the two of you say something he can’t decipher—the sudden loud music from the club drowning out the sound of your voice (he won’t care to admit how quickly he scrambles to hear you again). You kiss your friend on the cheek, squeeze her shoulder and wave goodbye.

You turn in his direction and he panics, crouching down even further to the ground beneath him in a shitty effort to conceal himself further.

He hardly recognizes himself, and it’s at this point he tells himself he needs to leave.

This position, one of panicking and trepidation and painful yearning is something he let go of a long time ago. And even though, really, he doesn’t respect himself, after all the shit that’s been going on, he has enough respect for what’s left of his mind.

He thinks, if he were to leave now, he could forget about you eventually.

He got a little taste. Confirmation of what your life is like now. It’s a stolen snapshot of something that he didn’t deserve to have, but it’s confirmation. You're okay. Better, without him. He could live off this feeling. At least for a while. Enough to tide him over until you once again, fade into a memory he can only reach in the slipping edges of his dreaming mind.

It doesn’t sound like a bad idea.

But he knows, no matter how much he wishes, no matter how hard he hopes, that’ll never happen now. He fucked up. And he fucked up bad.

He’s too far gone; too caught up in a moment he hasn’t given himself the right to have in a long time and—and you’re by yourself. Walking home alone at night. Jesus, why are you doing that?

He could watch you. Just for a little bit longer. Stand from the top of hidden buildings and make sure you get to the safety of your home before abandoning you one last time.

He owes you that much.

And so he does just that. He pretends, as he starts to follow you, that this isn’t a pathetic excuse just to keep looking at you. To get one final good look at the real you, not some false hazy version that materializes before him when he’s drunk.

You walk with purpose, a very clear set destination in your mind as you navigate the maze of streets from the club. You then turn a corner out of nowhere, catching him slightly off-guard. But he’s quick to gather himself, becoming swift in his movements as he goes from building to building; rooftop to rooftop. At one long stretch of street, he finds himself walking in tandem with you, gait mirroring that of the other unwittingly and unknowingly.

The realization holds him hostage.

He’s a fast walker, always has been. It was one of the things you’d tease him constantly for. Especially when he’d get caught up walking in inner-city markets and you’d berate him for making you run to catch up. He can see the two of you now. You playfully punch his shoulder telling him that one day he’s going to run all of his pairs of shoes into the ground. And he—instead of responding—leans down and kisses you. Every single time. Then, when you’d pull away (because he never could, he’s far too touchy for that) you’d smile and hold his face before grabbing his hand and walking away. And every time, somehow magically, he would slow down without even trying.

He smiles at the memory, naturally falling into a well-paced rhythm where he’s never too far ahead, or too far behind. He doesn’t want to miss the sight of you beside him. Even if you’re yards away, he can pretend.

Hopefully, your home is still a couple blocks away.

You then come to a stop—clearly frazzled—as a taxi rips down the street. His body reacts before his mind and he almost catches himself jumping off the building; fully prepared to collide with you and sweep you out of harms way. It’s a fantasy he almost indulges in. He imagines what you’d feel like pressed against him, if you’d recognize his touch even after all this time. He imagines you holding him back would trigger a response from somewhere deep within his psyche that would take your hand and run. He contemplates it. Truly.

But no.

He can’t do that. He shouldn’t do that.

He’s better than that. Smarter. Stronger. Wiser.

Besides, when you would inevitably see him for him; when the suit would dissipate to reveal the shell of the man you once knew—you wouldn’t be happy. He’s sure of that. And he’d have to see you the way he never wanted to.

It’s why he left you all alone like that, isn’t it?

He couldn’t possibly stand to see you look at him with anything that wasn’t love; with tears in your eyes and anger in your face that all pointed to a broken heart. The best way, in his mind, to avoid that was to leave while you slept—in the middle of the night before the sun could rise over your sleeping figure. Before he could second guess himself. That way he could remember your face as he loved it. Not as how he mourned it.

There are a couple more cars that pass by, and as you move beneath the light emanating from the windows behind and above you, he freezes.

Ever the realist, he never believed that someone could freeze from the sight of another. That a heart could stop, then stutter back to life once it grounded itself: once it latched onto reality. It was physically impossible for that to happen.

But then again, he was convinced seeing you again was also physically impossible. And here you are, as his heart fails to beat.

The light shows him everything: how you’ve naturally aged and grown. Your hair is darker than he remembers and he can see the way your features have begun to mature beneath the weight of a good life. But your smile, a faint grin that he was once so familiar with, remains unchanged.

You’re just as beautiful as the day he left; as the day the two of you met, and all those days in between. Though that doesn’t surprise him. After all, you’re a mirage; a sparkling oasis that promises everything all at once. A sight meant for those with sore eyes to see, but never touch. And he has the sorest eyes.

He follows you like that for a couple minutes more. Just…staring. He fights with the thoughts of how watching your ex-fiancée walk alone in the dark is fucking creepy. But…he can’t help himself.

You’re just…

You’re so close. And so far at the same time.

And he’s right there.

He wants to bang his head against a wall until it cracks and bleeds. At least then he’d know he was still breathing.

You then turn another corner and at this point, you’ve started to slow down.

He slinks to another building, quickly scans the surrounding area for any danger (he has to act like he’s at least here for a good reason), then focuses on you walking to the door to your apartment building.

You disappear for a few seconds and that’s when he starts to panic again.

He worries that you walking inside was the last of it. That he was too caught up in the sight of you to say goodbye. A real goodbye. Not the one you deserve, but the one he wants. Because he’s selfish. Always will be.

A light flicks on and he sees the window is almost parallel to where he stands.

He finds himself leaning over the edge—dangerously close to falling (although figuratively he already has). He’s desperate and he holds his breath until, by pure luck, he sees you again. You’ve placed your purse on your kitchen island and he can see you’re rummaging around in your fridge, probably sober enough to know you need some water to combat the booze and the residual desert heat.

You look…peaceful. You look at home.

It’s a bittersweet feeling.

You turn around—you’re facing a space he cannot see—and then you’re smiling. Wide and toothy, and he thinks maybe you finally got a dog. You always talked about getting one: a German Shepherd you’d name Jenna. He wanted one, too. He never had a pet growing up, but it was something he promised you for when you got married. It was supposed to be Mr. and Mrs. Spector and their dog Jenna. A family.

He smiles painfully. He hopes you got the dog.

But then he sees that it’s not a dog. You’re hugging someone. A guy. A tall man with warm skin and dark hair that has tucked himself in the crook of your neck. And soon you're laughing that wondrous laugh of yours.

His smile falters quickly as he watches the other man’s face rise to yours and…

You kiss him. It’s slow at first, but then you’re holding his face—the same way you used to hold Marc’s—and you kiss him hard.

He knows that kiss. Has been on the receiving end a thousand times. It’s the kind of kiss where you put your whole soul into it because he was having one of his self resentment episodes. Where you had to show him how deserving he was of love. Of your love, specifically. (He’s never been deserving of love, but he would never tell you that. He hated the thought of making you upset). It was a kiss that the two of you would lean into over time. The kind of kiss that would lead to his hand gently riding up your shirt before you’d tap him with a smile and kiss him again as you let him take you right there because God knows you two could never make it to your bedroom.

He wonders if the two of you have a similar routine. Do you have to kiss him to reassure him that you want him, or does he just know? Is he broken or is he whole? Does he look at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted?

Do you ever think about him?

He forces himself to look away as the light flickers off and the two of you disappear into the shadows.

He’s not too sure what he’s so upset about at this point.

It’s been a long time. Of course, you would have a life laid out by now. He reasons that just because it doesn’t include him doesn’t mean it isn’t real. You deserve everything.

And he wasn’t everything.

He wishes he hadn’t heard your laugh. Hadn’t been so eager to follow you like he did. Hadn’t seen what he just saw.

But once again, he’s fucked up. Seems to be all he can do at this point.

“Why are you just sitting there?” The voice comes out of nowhere and he almost screams. Of all the moments the fucker has to show up, it has to be right now.

Clenching his jaw, he inhales deeply. “I was just leaving. Relax, okay?”

Khonshu stares at him for a moment—taken back by the sudden aggression. But then he follows Marc’s not-so-subtle line of sight to the darkened building.

He knows. Somehow, he just knows.

“She’s happy. You don’t need to worry about her.” Khonshu says matter-of-factly, then turns away unbothered. Marc, who is very bothered, rises from his knees and tries to steady his breathing.

He doesn’t want to leave. The irrational part of his brain begs him to stay. To bust down your door and tell you he’s sorry, and that even after all this time he still fucking loves you.

But this God is still staring him down, and as he comes to realize his current situation (in a life contract with the ancient Egyptian God of the Moon), he thinks if he hadn’t deserved you then, he sure as hell wouldn’t now.

He was able to dream for a little bit though. Had time to fantasize. To stare. To admire. To fall.

Really, it’s all he can ask for.

But it’s time for him to come back to reality. He is in no position of being worthy enough to say he misses you, and you clearly don’t miss him.

He really can’t blame you for that though.

With a spin of his heel, he starts running back the way he came. Focusing on the shadows his body makes as he flies further and further away from you for the last time.

•

“Sweetheart? What’s wrong?” Your boyfriend looks at you from your shared bed. He leans on his side, and you can see the concern on his face, even under the glow of the moon.

You turn your attention back to the window, staring at the rooftop across from you. Only moments ago, as you were getting settled, you watched shadows dance and flicker along the top of the building. It was enough to distract and pull you out of bed to further inspect the strangeness of it all, but only proved to be nothing.

It went as quickly as it came, and you assume it’s just your hazy mind playing tricks on you—mistaking the inky grey clouds hovering in front of the moon for something more.

But you could’ve sworn you saw someone.

Shaking your head, you climb back into your bed. You smile down at the man beside you and touch his cheek softly. “Go back to sleep, honey. It's nothing.”

He kisses you quickly, before lying down again. He drifts off immediately, as he has no problem falling asleep at the drop of a hat. You, unfortunately, don’t have that luxury. It always takes you a little longer to fall asleep, but tonight it takes you forever.

You decide to watch the moon until you fall asleep.