Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Marc?” Steven asks one morning out of the blue as he’s counting off everything in his bag. He always has everything, because very little leaves the bag overnight, but it’s always useful to be certain.

“Yeah?” Marc responds, tired but open to listening as always.

“Did we really blip?”

He latches the bag shut and hefts it over his shoulder, trying not to get nervous about Marc’s tense silence. Marc just needs a moment to think sometimes, it’s no big deal.

It takes until Steven’s outside for Marc to say, “I think we did.”

“You think?” Steven asks, incredulous. “Mate, I understand why I wouldn’t know, but your memory’s a lot better than mine would’ve been at the time.”

There’s a flicker of something self-deprecating, but before Steven can shut it down, Marc says, “Yeah, well, we wouldn’t have split if I was a stable kid. My memory can be pretty shitty, too.”

“Either you have those 5 years or you don’t,” Steven argues.

Marc groans. Steven lets him slip into the body, and Marc on instinct runs a hand through his hair and adjusts the bag. “Look, Steven,” he says, with both his hands to accentuate what he says. “I think we blipped because neither of us remember the blip, but there was only one person who could have reported me that didn’t blip, not counting Khonshu, and my name isn’t in any of the databases, so he didn’t, so either he cares a hell of a lot less than he says and shows, or… ‘dunno, we blanked it, or something.”

And now Steven’s getting nervous, because he didn’t consider checking any of the memorial lists before posing the question to Marc, but he trusts that, genuinely, neither of them know.

“Should we call your friend and ask?” Steven suggests. “Or see if Layla remembers something we don’t?”

“Haven’t filled him in on… anything about you,” Marc admits. “Haven’t had the opportunity.”

“Well, then just ask why we’re not on the memorial list,” Steven suggests. “If he thinks we’re crazy, then we know we didn’t blip, and we can go from there. If there’s an explanation, then great, that’s one thing figured out.”

⠀

⠀

“Duchamp,” Marc greets the moment the call connects.

“Marc!” Duchamp responds, perky as ever. “Ça me fait plaisir de voir que tu ne m'as pas complètement oublié. I was beginning to worry.”

Steven knows a little bit of French, but it’s not enough to keep up with Duchamp’s faster rate of speech, especially while on a call. Marc knows some key phrases.

“In English, for that one,” Marc requests.

“I thought you forgot about me,” Duchamp reiterates. “Never call, never write. It’s like you caught me cheating with another man, mon ami.”

Steven chokes.

Mostly for Steven’s benefit, Marc angrily protests, “We never even dated! You were at my wedding!”

“You heard my meaning,” Duchamp dismisses. “Speaking of, how is la scarabée?”

Marc plans to respond but after a moment he clocks that it’s a new nickname, one that really doesn’t work without context that Duchamp doesn’t have.

At his prolonged silence, Duchamp sighs into the receiver. “Your escapades in Cairo made it onto national news, mec, it was not hard to put together. Forgive me for my skills of logic.”

“It’s fine,” Marc says quickly. “She’s great, really, things have been a lot better lately.” Probably because of his recent full disclosure about Steven and the clusterfuck that is his mind, but Marc’s still going to avoid telling Duchamp about that unless it proves necessary. “I called about something else, though.”

“Crache le morceau, then.”

Marc takes a deep breath. He’s okay with telling Duchamp, he’s just scared of the possible outcomes. They haven’t talked in ages, if he takes it badly, it won’t be a loss in terms of Marc’s current life. And, if he takes it in stride, Marc won’t even have to divulge anything, and he can get more prep time. “Did I blip?”

Duchamp does not have a quippy comeback for this question. Ten seconds, twenty, he spends considering what to respond.

“You there?” Marc checks, heart hammering.

“La disparition was a challenging time,” Duchamp says carefully, kind of like he’s approaching a sleeping lion. “During it, I did not have any conversations with Marc.”

They both lock onto the phrasing immediately, knowing that it’s completely intentional.

“Steven, then?” Marc asks on impulse.

“I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting M. Grant,” Duchamp says, which is a clear confirmation. “It was my understanding that the two of you were both vanished.”

Marc needs to know how he knows, because Marc sure as hell never told Duchamp about Steven, but priorities. “So we both dusted, right?”

“You did,” Duchamp agrees. “However, your body did not.”

Everything lurches. Steven presses his free hand on the counter to keep himself stable, and after a few seconds pause, he realises that Marc has pulled back.

He hesitates, because he can’t fake an American accent for the life of him, but he steels himself and asks, “Who was around, then?”

They’ve suspected that they have a third. The only evidence right now is circumstantial, just how their sleep schedule compares to how awake they feel, but there were moments during the Harrow debacle that they couldn’t pin to one of the two perceived options for fronters. Thinking it to themselves and having confirmation from someone else are two very different steps.

“Bonsoir, M. Grant. I take it neither of you have made his acquaintance?”

It’s nice to be recognised immediately for himself. Most people only know the body as Marc or Steven, never both.“Not as far as I’m aware, but if he’s not picked up an accent like mine, all Americans sound the same to me.”

It gets a laugh out of Duchamp, which is nice. “I would rather protect his privacy,” he admits. “But I will be in contact, and if he permits it, I will share what I know. D'accord?”

Steven really needs to know about the third person in his head. The concept of someone he doesn’t even know piloting his body doesn’t sit well with him. But, clearly, Duchamp is someone Marc trusts, and with his clear faith to whoever their third is, he’s worthy of the trust.

“It’s alright,” Steven decides. “Have you… have you spoken to him recently?”

“Here and there.”

So they were right. Someone else has been fronting while they try to sleep.

Ugh. It’s like fate is determined to keep Steven from ever experiencing a full night of sleep.

“Was it from this phone?” Steven checks, knowing that with their track record, there may as well be a second burner phone stashed somewhere in the flat. “I don’t make a habit of looking through Marc’s call history.”

“There’s no harm in saying it’s another number,” Duchamp allows easily. “And, if you happen to locate it, I presume that he would have me saved as Frenchie.”

Steven grimaces. “Bit rude, yeah?”

Duchamp laughs. “Non, mec, I have many friends who share the nickname, Marc’s wife included. I’ve been told I do not look like a Jean-Paul. Marc’s solution to that is his own.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Steven jokes weakly. “Don’t have any reference photos lying around.”

“I would love to sit down with you one day. Your others have kept you from me long enough.”

Something about how that’s phrased makes Steven squirm. He knew about Marc trying to keep him under wraps, but for this third guy, who seems to know about both Marc and Steven based on what Frenchie has said, doing the same? Steven’s not a child, he can handle himself. He doesn’t know why neither of his alters have realised it.

“We could try to schedule something,” he suggests, trying to keep his thoughts under wraps.

“We’ll see.”

⠀

⠀

When the blip happened, Marc was on a mission for Khonshu in Brooklyn.

Ya’akov came to in the midst of the chaos, shoved into the front despite not having paid attention before. Usually, when Marc would pull away, it would be because of an immediate danger or trigger, and while the screaming in the streets and car pileups weren’t quite that, they sure were something.

Despite having hardly interacted with Khonshu before that moment, Ya’akov knew what he had to do. He summoned Marc’s suit and took to the streets, helping everyone into cover and shutting down all the cars left deserted in the streets.

Over the course of the next few hours, he heard many similar stories. It was a normal day, a few streets in Manhattan were closed down after some sort of Avengers battle, but that was nothing new. Out of nowhere, screaming and wailing sirens rang out, and then a friend, a parent, a child, whoever, a person would disappear either without a trace, or into a cloud of dust, depending on how fast the individual checked on their companion.

It made no sense. Before Khonshu, if Ya’akov chose to do this out of the goodness of his own heart, he may have even called bullshit, but now he just calls it magic.

He has guesses, mostly related to whatever happened in Manhattan with a varying list of Avengers. Disaster like this sounds right up their alley, and it even sounds like it happened nearby.

This lasts until he actually works his way across islands and up Manhattan, still keeping with his tasks, and he finds out that this isn’t just New York, city or state. It’s not just the country. It’s not just humans, it’s every animal. It’s the entire goddamn world.

During this freakout is when Khonshu finally chooses to manifest. He looks down at Ya’akov, projecting a sneer despite not having any muscles on his face, and asks, “Where is Marc?”

“Retreated,” Ya’akov tells him dismissively. “There’s a lot going on, I’m sticking around for as long as I can, I don’t need him dumped back into this shitshow.”

“That is not what I meant, parasite,” Khonshu growls. “Marc is missing.”

Ya’akov goes cold all over. No matter how angry or annoyed at Marc he may be from day to day, he knows that losing Marc would be a bad thing, if it’s even possible.

“I’ll figure it out,” Ya’akov bluffs. “But, if you haven’t noticed, we have a couple thousand travellers to protect.”

⠀

⠀

It was the first time he’d woken up after sleeping with the body, to his memory.

He’s in the same hotel room, wearing the same clothes, and still sweaty after collapsing before taking a shower. There’s no tension headache speaking of someone else trying to swap in.

Ya’akov takes out a laptop from Marc’s duffle and searches up news on what happened yesterday.

What he finds isn’t promising. Millions upon millions of people being reported, numbers are constantly rising, and there have been crashed planes, stranded boats, missing government officials. It’s all a mess.

He’s stuck.

⠀

⠀

He lasts a while.

Can’t put a number to it if you paid him, but Jake knows that he stays fronting for a long time.

He thinks that he might be alone in their head. Marc’s gone, as far as he can tell Steven’s gone, and he doesn’t think anyone else stuck around, can’t even confirm whether or not there once was more of them except from vague childhood memories.

Then, one morning, instead of coming to on the bed in the apartment that he’s been renting, he comes to with his heart hammering double-time while he stands in front of the bathroom mirror.

While working on getting his breath back under control, Jake thinks as loud as he can, “Marc? Steven?” The thoughts feel almost like tangible things with how much focus he pours into them.

There’s no response from his missing alters, however.

Jake tries to convince himself that maybe he spaced out, misplaced some memory, it’s not like it’s impossible. With his luck, though, it’s a longshot at best.

That night, he dreams.

He sits down on a park bench across from a little girl in an odd combination of sundress and jeans, her red hair striking even while only lit by streetlights and the moon. She turns to him, squints in the dark, and says, “I had a dream where I looked just like you.”

“Oh, yeah?” He says, playing into whatever the kid’s game is.

The kid nods. “I was old, and a man, and I was all sweaty and gross and hairy. Not me at all.”

Jake lets out a startled laugh. “Quite a nightmare to be old.”

She nods without noticing the irony.

⠀

⠀

Jake always stops at Gena’s diner before starting his rounds in the taxi.

Gena’s kind, but tired, and as haunted as she is by all the losses she faced in the dusting, underneath that is still someone who can banter with the best of them.

Sometimes they talk. Jake’s told her about Marc, a childhood friend who came to New York just to visit him, only to dust the same day. He’s still figuring out how to talk about Steven without mentioning the DID, but he’ll get there. For how little the three of them ever cross paths, they’re still important to Jake.

She’s never questioned why he doesn’t bring up anyone else. Jake doesn’t have any clue how to start on explaining his life before the dusting, fragmented at best, and how New York is shaping him like he’s an influenceable kid and not a goddamn adult.

Jake didn’t speak with a Brooklyn accent when he showed up, but now he has to focus to get the original Chicago accent to roll off his tongue. He didn’t always go by Jake, either, but the first time he introduced himself as himself, he found it was better than using the full Hebrew name.

As horrifying as it is to say, the dusting gave him a home he didn’t have before. A chance to live he’d never had before. He had so little to lose that the dusting wasn’t a loss to him at all.

Months in and feeling the consequences, however, he’s starting to wish Marc and Steven would come back sometime soon, at least before the goddamn kid becomes a more frequent stand-in.

⠀

⠀

“So,” says the man at Jake’s front door, with an accent that Jake can’t place with only one word but certainly isn’t from around here. “Were you aware that I survived, Marc?”

At the name drop, Jake immediately tenses. He hasn’t heard that name directed at him once in the last year, and he’s been liking it that way.

Making sure to keep the drawl in his words extra thick, Jake responds, “Think you got the wrong guy.”

The man scoffs. “You’re not going to fool me that easily, mon ami. I would not have come if I wasn’t already certain.”

“Well, pal, my name's Jake, so maybe you should do a little more research and try again. Hopefully, next time, you’ll even find who you’re looking for.”

“Marc, if this is because you miss your wife, I hate to say it—”

“I’m not Marc,” Jake snaps, taking a step through his doorway so the man has to step backward. “Listen, pal, your guy is probably dead, and there ain’t anything that talking to me will change, so back off before I call someone on you.”

There’s a moment where it actually looks like he’s gotten the message across. The man’s expression crumbles with a familiar shade of grief, but he collects himself fast. “I don’t believe you,” he asserts. “I’m many things, but I don’t count being face blind as one of them.”

“I am Jake. Fucking. Lockley,” Jake snarls, fighting the urge to punch this guy, because Marc doesn’t trust that many people which means this guy’s probably trustworthy, unfortunately for his desire to beat him into submission. “Marc Spector is dead, so, kindly, fuck off, and don’t come back.”

He backs up, about to slam the door in the man’s face, when the man observes, “I didn’t give you his last name.”

Jake panics, tries to slam the door, and the other guy catches it with his foot.

“Fine, come inside,” Jake relents. “You’re not going to find who you want here, though.”

His place is small. Like hell can he afford anything better than a studio, but he’s got rolling dividers blocking off his bed, which is better than nothing. It’s also the best he’s got, because wherever the hell Marc’s home base is, Jake never found out, and by now Marc’s been evicted for not keeping up with his rent.

This place is under Jake’s name. He had a different apartment under one of Marc’s aliases, but he got in contact with Marc’s usual people with a lot of digging, and now he has IDs for Jake Lockley.

Whoever this guy is, he either tracked Jake with only his face, or he’s friends with the folks where Marc gets his IDs. Either way, Jake needs to figure out how to prove he’s not Marc when, considering the body, he is.

The man cases the place as he goes, sweeping back and forth and always stopping briefly on Jake.

He doesn’t know what the man is seeing. Jake doesn’t remember many details about Marc’s safe houses, and doesn't know how his place would compare.

“You’re quite committed to this identity,” the man comments. “I know how you are, Marc, but are you certain there is no room in your life for me?”

Jake comes to several split-second decisions.

Marc’s dead. Marc’s been dead for over a year now, and there’s no chance for him to come back. If this guy doesn’t want to listen about the dissociative disorder, then Jake will tell him with actions to fuck off.

“Dunno,” he says, crossing his arms. “Don’t even have your name. Not like Marc ever talked to me about his people.”

This earns an arched brow. “So, what is the relationship in this narrative? Brothers?”

Jake really, really hopes that this man doesn’t know about how loaded that single word is for Marc. He’ll give the benefit of the doubt, but points are certainly being deducted here.

“The relationship is that it’s the same body, different fuckin’ guy, and Marc hasn’t been around since the dusting. Just me, now. And it’s not any narrative, it’s just how our brain works.”

He doesn’t have to get into everything with the kid. Her bag of stuff is stashed by the bed and this man is not invited over there. As long as she doesn’t do anything stupid like fronting right this second, it won’t matter.

There’s a long pause, and then the man finally says, “Jake.”

“That’s my name,” Jake affirms.

“Jean-Paul,” he returns, “Though, many friends are in the habit of calling me Frenchie.”

“I wonder why,” Jake says dryly.

⠀

⠀

Frenchie does his best to understand.

It’s inspiring, honestly. Jake sits him down with the laptop and shows him page after page hoping to show him the point, and just when he thinks that it’s no use, Frenchie notes that this probably has something to do with why the dusting didn’t affect plant life. Taking one man out of a body, but leaving the body for everyone who’s left.

Jake agrees, says, “Two, actually,” and has a moment to appreciate how badly he’s fucked up before he’s trying to explain Steven.

⠀

⠀

The talk of the town at the two year mark is the return of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, more casually known as Daredevil.

Due to the lack of sightings, the consensus of the public had been that their street-level protector had been dusted, never to be seen again, but now the word is that someone’s going out in his costume, following the pattern of coming when someone calls and being ridiculously good at fighting.

Jake hadn’t known about Daredevil before this word started going around, but as one of the vigilantes who’s been helping out as much as he can since the dusting, Daredevil certainly draws his attention.

Khonshu doesn’t mind when he patrols, as it fits the theme of protecting the travellers of the night. There’s still the missions that Jake has to skip town to complete, but he has enough freedom to seek out his own justice.

At the time he’s usually in his apartment doing warmups, he’s parking his cab in a garage and summoning his suit in a back alley on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen. He doesn’t make any attempt to hide as he crosses rooftops, the white of his cape and cowl shining in the moonlight.

It’s impossible to pin down when exactly he gains a tail, but at some point he stops, turns, and the man claiming to be Daredevil is standing across from him with squared shoulders and a tight jaw, looking poised to strike at any moment.

Jake raises his hands up placatingly, telling Daredevil, “I’m a friendly.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Not on me.”

Daredevil tilts his head. “Do you mean the people of this city harm?”

“Only the shitheads who mean others harm.”

Another pause. Daredevil’s staring at Jake with the red eyes of his helmet that don’t look all that transparent. It’s probably just a trick of the moonlight.

“How long have you been protecting the city?” Daredevil finally asks, starting to ever-so-slightly relax.

“Since the dusting. The world didn’t need me sitting on my ass when it had to bounce back from losing billions.”

Daredevil winces, and Jake tenses, sliding into a fighting stance before catching himself. Cautiously, Daredevil admits, “It took me a while to get off my ass. The city needed me for protection and hope, but I didn’t have any figure like that for myself.

“You think a lot of yourself,” Jake notes before he can stop himself.

“Not my words,” Daredevil shoots back. “My friends have a lot of faith in me.”

Jake doesn’t respond that he didn’t have friends before the dusting, because he just met this guy, but it’s close. There’s already an odd feeling of camaraderie, knowing that they both just want to help this struggling city.

“And I didn’t even need to check that you’re the real one,” Jake jokes. “Just had to give it a sec, since you really can’t mistake all that brooding for anyone else.

It earns him a laugh.

“I see my reputation precedes me.”

⠀

⠀

Red is a goddamn riot.

And, yes, Jake means to call him Red, because Daredevil is a pretentious as hell name for the shithead Jake’s gotten to know. Luckily, Red’s got a whole host of nicknames to choose from instead.

Anyway.

One of Red’s favorite moves when faced with a large gathering of criminals is to shut down the lights to their building and beat the shit out of them in the dark, because he’s some sort of ninja and it gives him an advantage in the dark. Jake, on the other hand, has to be very careful in the same fights because his eyes are goddamn glowsticks once the lights go out, and there’s a limit to how much of a target he can handle being.

Another one of Red’s favorite moves, one that Jake is extremely happy to join him in, is perching over suspicious activity and waiting until the target notices the extremely distinct shadows and practically shits themself trying to get away.

A thing the two of them have in common is taking an almost vindictive pleasure scaring the shit out of those who hurt others without cause.

It’s even funnier when contrasted with some of Red’s other moves, such as keeping stickers on him to give out to little kids he helps out. One time, when someone actually recognises Jake for a change, Red even manages to sneak the stickers over to him.

Going out with Red is a hell of a lot more entertaining than working with only Khonshu for company ever was.

The fun lasts until he loses track of Red for barely ten minutes and comes back to find him full of knives.

Seriously, there is not another way to say it. There’s several knives sticking out of Red’s costume and, based on the size of the blade he can see and how much Red is struggling, they’re in a lot further.

“Fuck, man,” Jake gasps, trying to get a read on how bad Red’s hurt but not getting much further than that’s too many knives. Sue him, he’s usually got the healing armour to benefit him, he doesn’t know where all the most important spots are other than somewhere in the stomach. “How the hell did this happen?”

“Old friend,” Red grumbles weakly. “Got a burner on my belt, can you get it?”

“Right,” Jake returns without hesitation. He checks one pocket, Red weakly pats another, and Jake tugs out the burner. “Who am I calling?”

“Old friend,” Red repeats.

“Har-har,” Jake snarks. “Names, Red, I need them.”

“Claire,” Red grits out. “Her name should be at the top, it’s got a dot.”

Jake frantically flicks open the flip phone, and does an admirable job of not snarking about how the literal vigilante doesn’t even have a password on his phone. With a moment of consideration, Jake decides it’s probably in case of this exact scenario. Instead, he just dials.

To the credit of whoever Claire is, she picks up before too many rings. Also to her credit, her greeting is not a simple hello, but an extremely judgemental, “What alley are you bleeding out in this time?”

Jake likes her already.

He takes a peak out the alley and catches a street sign, rattling off the intersection easily enough, then continuing, “I can get him closer if you want. Won’t be a problem to carry him.”

“Ignoring the fact I don’t know who the hell you are,” she says on a sigh, “That’d be great, but I’m all the way in Harlem, and no matter how athletic you are, you’re not going to move him four miles before he bleeds out, unless you’re just a bystander and actually have a car.”

“Then why the hell did he want me calling someone in Harlem?” Jake grumbles, but then realises, oh yeah, Khonshu can help him fly. He doesn’t, because it takes energy and Khonshu is also allergic to most types of fun, but it’s possible and it would probably be a big difference for Red at the moment. “Give me your address anyways, I got an idea.”

She gives the street, which is good enough. Probably a good sign that she’s not giving her exact address.

“I’ll call you back if I can’t get over there,” he tells her, then immediately hangs up.

Despite not having properly called for Khonshu, he finds the bird looming just outside the alleyway, the moon directly behind his head and making it seem as though the inside of his skull is glowing.

“Can I fly?” He asks without preamble. “Don’t want diablo bleeding out.”

Khonshu hums, displeased.

“He kind of works for you,” Jake tacks on. “Protects the travellers of the night, and all. You wouldn’t want to lose a person like that, would you?”

A moment of consideration.

“Very well,” Khonshu says, and a strong gust of wind rustles Jake’s cape. “I will carry you to the nurse.”

⠀

⠀

There’s a lot more to be said about Jake building a life after the dusting.

Nobody needs the whole story, though, because it’s one among millions of identical stories. Khonshu and the DID make Jake’s interesting, but it’s still the same beats of finding yourself after a tragedy, and communities coming together to fill the holes of grief.

More important is the ending.

⠀

⠀

Jake’s sitting in traffic, tapping on his wheel to the beat of the song playing on the radio, and he looks up to see that the sidewalks have suddenly become absurdly crowded, even by New York standards.

He feels the flicker of attention in the back of his mind that tells him the kid is awake and listening, but he can’t get much of a read on her.

Because timing is a bitch, this is when his light goes green, but he decides to go find a place to park rather than wait to pick someone up.

He gets his answers (ones already building in his head, but still) before he even gets out of the car, because Khonshu manifests in the back radiating pleasure. “You are whole.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Jake asks, knowing damn-well what Khonshu means but not entirely believing it.

Khonshu isn’t testy when he replies, speaking to just how happy he really is. “I sense Marc Spector.”

Jake’s grip on the wheel goes white-knuckled for a moment, but then he catches up with himself and fumbles with one hand for his phone, needing to call Frenchie immediately.

Frenchie picks up as Jake is pulling over.

“Mec, do you believe what is being said?”

“The bird says Marc’s back,” Jake explains to the receiver, not sure how he feels about that. Not sure if it means that tonight he’ll fall asleep, and won’t wake up until months later. “Someone did something.”

An Avenger, probably, because they were the ones to release a statement after two weeks of pure pandemonium. Because they’re the ones who lost the fight which caused the dusting. Because they’re the only folks crazy enough to fix everything.

Frenchie’s breathing across the line is unstable, but he’s not gasping, so it’s most likely not a panic attack, just a large emotion.

“Go get in touch with your people,” Jake suggests. “They’re probably confused as hell right now. I dunno how to bring Marc out right now, he’ll get to you when he gets to you.”

Frenchie must be frantic, because his words are cut off by him hanging up.

Jake ducks out of his cab and gets to work.

⠀

⠀

Thankfully, he doesn’t lose time to Marc the first day he’s back. Jake gets to bed, wakes up the next morning, and makes it halfway through the day before he blanks out.

When he taps back in, he sees that Marc is trying to get a plane ticket. It’s not possible, because the worlds a mess right now with the sudden reappearance of billions, but it’s a giant sign telling him that this life won’t be his for a lot longer.

Marc’s the one with the body’s name. Marc’s the one with a wife. Marc, before the blip, was the host and Jake, before the blip, wasn’t much of a member of society.

It doesn’t make it easier to pack up his apartment. It doesn’t stop him from frowning his way through goodbyes with Gena, with Matt’s people, and it’s certainly not easy to say to Frenchie that Marc’s a growing headache, pushing closer and closer to the surface hour by hour and prepped to take control.

For a while, it’s a 50/50 split, and things aren’t good, but they’re fine. Jake can call his people between missions with Frenchie, and since Marc’s wife always reads Jake as being pissed Marc, she doesn’t try anything too intimate when he’s around.

He respects that she’s Marc’s wife. He’s just not interested.

However the hell things work (and, really, he wishes there was a way to really understand but there just isn’t), Marc comes back as a host. Jake takes the front like a bullet train and Marc slides into it like a river, and it starts becoming exhausting to fight what the body wants him to do.

⠀

⠀

The next time he starts fronting with any consistency, Marc and Steven have gotten things figured out between themselves, and Khonshu now only hangs over Jake’s shoulder.

London isn’t New York, and it’s a lot harder to fly under the radar for out-of-country missions when the others are still in his head, but Jake’s got a rhythm going.

He never hears anything from the kid. Either they’re never awake at the same time, or she got put back into brain storage once Marc and Steven were back to fill their roles. Jake hopes that she’s simply existing in their innerworld, a place that he knows exists even though it’s always hazy to his memory.

When he gets a free moment, he’ll talk to whoever’s awake in New York, or Frenchie if he’s available. Gena and Red are the only ones he’s told about the DID, but he’s got other people back in his city and he doesn’t want to completely fall off the radar.

It’s good enough for him, which is why it can’t last.

He listens to the voicemail from Frenchie while having a pre-mission snack, and now that they’re looking into him, Jake has a decision to make about telling his alters or ignoring them.

⠀

⠀

One evening, they grab their laptop, arguing over what kind of movie to watch, only to get derailed.

For one, the laptop is unlocked, even though it’s supposed to lock automatically whenever it’s closed or the screen goes dark. It’s half the safety precaution, the other being a password that Marc considers secure and Steven considers a nightmare to remember.

There’s also a sticky note pasted on the screen, reading in a messy scrawl research first, then I’ll try to talk.

“The fuck?” Marc demands.

He sticks the note to the back of the screen and looks at the several articles that have been opened by whoever messed with their laptop.

They’re all on DID.

“Well, it seems like Frenchie kept his word,” Steven comments.

Marc’s too off put by not knowing when they lost time to ask when Duchamp gave Steven nickname permissions.

“Though, this is a bit rude, isn’t it? It’s not like we don’t know our own brain. Don’t need any articles telling us how we’re supposed to work.”

Marc agrees, but…

“We need to know more about him,” Marc tells Steven. “We already know he’s dangerous, he killed people in Cairo. If he’s making us research, then so be it.”

Steven’s quiet while Marc starts reading the first article, not saying much of anything they don’t already know. Finally, though, he says, “You’re dangerous, too.”

“It’s different,” Marc insists.

“Is it, though? When we first met, you killed someone, too.”

⠀

⠀

They do the research. Steven switches in to read since Marc gets bored of it fast, but even though not all of it speaks to them, it’s all interesting.

And a bit depressing, because apparently childhood trauma causing someone's personality to fracture is a more common thing than most people expect.

When they’ve made it through everything left open on the laptop, Marc sticks a passive aggressive note on top, because Marc is Marc.

The next morning, a new note on their front door informs them that the mirror trick is bullshit and talking to each other is bullshit and I am leaving the body for the night, please and thank you.

“Charming,” Marc deadpans when he makes it to the end of the night.

“Seems like he at least tried, though,” Steven observed. “Even if he didn’t get it to work.”

⠀

⠀

Drastic measures, Jake decides, waking to find Khonshu sulking over a missed opportunity thanks to not having Jake in the front. I need some drastic fucking measures.

If he could just talk to the others, he could actually negotiate body time outside of doing Khonshu’s bidding. He could have a life outside of fleeting moments again, and fuck is it tempting. However, whenever he takes the front, it’s always sudden, and he can only remember one or two times he managed to be conscious at the same time as one of the others.

So: Jake dusts off a fake ID and buys a plane ticket.

⠀

⠀

Steven’s used to waking up without knowing where he is or what he was just doing. Before, he played it off and filled in the gaps to the best of his ability, but now he understands that this is him tuning in sometime after Marc has tuned out. Since nobody shoots him concerned glances as they pass, it probably wasn’t that long a switch.

He glances around to collect his bearings. He’s sitting at a bus stop, so Marc found a relatively safe place to switch. The sun’s out, so either it’s one of their free days or Steven switched out sometime during or after his shift, he doesn’t quite have an idea of that. In front of him–

Well, it’s a street, which is fine, but everyone is driving on the wrong side, which is not fine. There’s no cacophony of honking, and they had no travel plans.

Steven feels a phone buzz in his pocket and fumbles to pull it out. There’s a calendar notification waiting for him, but first he checks their notes to see if he can get a read on anything, but Marc hasn’t written anything new down.

The calendar gives him a little more information, but not context. In ten minutes, Meet with Red is scheduled at a place called Gena’s Diner, which Steven has never heard of, nor does he recognise the street name.

This makes some sense because, upon further investigation of the map, apparently sometime since the last time Steven was awake, someone took the body to bloody New York, apparently. There better have been a good reason, and they better have called Steven out sick.

Whatever’s happening, though, he knows he shouldn’t interrupt, because it’s probably important. Since Marc is an ex-mercenary and Layla is a smuggler, many things in Steven’s life that he’s not involved in tend to be important.

He follows the map to Gena’s Diner, and realises as he stands outside that he has no clue who they’re supposed to be meeting, and also has no idea how to fake his way through Marc’s accent.

Steven sticks with the foot traffic, sort of. He goes up and down the same street, flicking through his phone and trying to find any more hints for what’s going on.

He doesn’t get a clue, but he gets Marc.

“The hell?” comes Marc’s groggy voice, making Steven’s head snap up.

“Welcome back, mate,” he greets, sounding more testy than he intends. “Care to tell me why we’re in New bloody York?”

“We’re what?”

Lovely.

Steven tries to identify a non-suspicious reflective surface to use as a visual aid, since the phone camera tends to have inconsistent results, but he settles for ducking out of the crowd and using the phone while locked instead.

Marc is scowling, even more than usual.

“Are you fucking with me?” Marc demands.

“Wish I were,” Steven sighs. “But it’s true. Woke up in a whole other continent, no idea how we got here.”

Marc fades into control, running a hand through his hair in his usual tick, only to pause when he meets resistance. He tugs it off.

“This isn’t our hat,” Marc notes. “Do we even have hats?”

“You’ve got that one baseball cap,” Steven recalls. “But I don’t recall this one.”

At this point, they both know that they must have gotten into this situation thanks to their unknown third, so neither of them say it. Instead, Steven lightly shoves his way back into the body and says, “Right, well, there is something on our schedule nearby, so we should see where this goes, shouldn’t we?”

“Steven,” Marc replies, tense.

“He’s the one who swapped out after dragging the body around the world. He can deal with one of us taking over his plans.”

Without waiting for Marc’s agreement, since he doesn’t need it to do what he wants, Steven starts heading back towards Gena’s Diner.

Marc’s tension is extremely palpable, but he doesn’t say anything to object, either because he slightly agrees or he understands he shouldn’t fight Steven when he’s got his sights set on doing something.

The door gives a charming little jingle as Steven enters, and a woman standing behind the counter immediately makes eye contact with him. This is about when Steven realises he doesn’t know who they’re expected to be meeting here, but it’s too late to back out.

The woman behind the counter steps out and walks with clear intention for Steven. This doesn’t seem like the kind of place to assign you a table, so Steven’s not entirely sure what’s happening, and is even less sure when she says in a clearly teasing tone, “Nice seeing you, stranger. Maybe next time, you could even give more than an hour of forewarning.”

Clearly she thinks she knows someone in the body. She certainly doesn’t know Steven.

With a brief check-in, he can confirm she doesn’t know Marc, either.

He takes too long to respond, and she stiffens as she clocks it. Steven’s considering faking his way through an American accent and saying ah, I just have a cold is all when she says, “Oh, you’re not Jake.”

Steven fumbles. There’s a sudden pressure between his brows, and the world around him starts growing far away. He tries to say something in response, but all that escapes is a bit of a sigh before he’s thrust into a slower switch.

Jake comes to with an arm around his shoulder and his first reaction is to pull away before his memory catches up with his instincts.

He’s reaching for a weapon he doesn’t have when Gena puts up her arms placatingly, prompting, “You here now?”

Gods. She’s never seen him switch in before, and she’s still relaxed about it. No wonder he liked her from the start.

“Jake,” he confirms, reaching up to at least push back his curls only to find, to his surprise, that he’s still got his cap for a change. He adjusts it, shoves his hands into his pockets, and tries to ask casually, “Did I beat him here?”

Gena knows Matt and knows Daredevil, but he’s not clear if she knows they’re the same guy, so he does his best to avoid nicknames for him around Gena. In turn, she’s cagey as hell about anyone else’s identity, which is great some of the time but annoying other times.

“He’s sitting by the window,” Gena prompts. Jake spins around and yep, there’s Red, tapping his fingers against the table and playing at not knowing Jake’s arrived. “Go to your business, we can catch up later.”

She is a goddamn blessing, who the hell else would be patient enough to give that offer? Jake’s going to slip two hundred into her tip jar the next time he gets the chance.

He gives a quick nod of acknowledgement before speedwalking to Red’s table.

As he slides into his seat, Red jokes, “Long time no see.”

Jake scoffs. “That’s seriously what you’re leading with?”

“Well, you tend to respond better to inappropriate humour, but I wasn’t clear on who I’d be speaking to.”

Aw fuck, right. Unlike Gena, Jake had explained his thought process to Red, so now he needs to figure out if Marc and Steven are still hanging around the front.

Well, it was sort of a thought process. A single thought of surrounding himself with as many positive triggers as possible, but it took a process to get to that idea, so it’s sort of the same thing.

“Right now you’re talking to me,” Jake tells him, “No clue if Marc or Stevie have an ear out.”

He doesn’t mention the kid. Matt knows because he met the kid after trying to find Moon Knight at his apartment after an extremely shitty day on Jake’s part, but she’s not around right now and he doesn’t need Marc and Steven freaking out about her on top of all the shit he’s throwing at them today.

Matt doesn’t ask either, thankfully. Instead, he says in a low murmur, “It was someone else up until about a minute ago. That help any?”

“We’ve got a tendency of kicking each other out of awareness,” Jake explains, equally as low. “Thought that being over here would help some, but that switch was as shitty as usual.”

“I’m not going to try and call their attention without permission,” Matt says. “But if I’m not here as your proxy, and it’s just us, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to relocate to my apartment.”

It’s a tempting offer. If Marc and Steven are gone for the moment, Jake would love to go out on the town with Red again, or even share stories over shots of cheap alcohol, but that’s probably avoiding the reason he came here, and there’s only five sick days max before Steven would need a doctor's note.

“I’ll try to switch out,” Jake decides. “Not sure how well it'll go, but I have ideas.”

⠀

⠀

Marc fades into awareness slowly.

One hand is resting on a cold glass of water, the other is holding his phone. The blur of the screen settles into photos of Layla, and when he realises what just happened, he quickly stashes the phone.

Seriously. Steven can get him out by just saying Marc’s name enough times, he doesn’t need to use Layla.

He looks up and there’s an unknown man sitting across from him. Round red glasses while indoors, wearing a soft-looking cardigan, and he’s tapping a steady rhythm against the table with one hand.

Seems like Steven found whoever he was looking for.

The man across from him clocks Marc’s arrival fast, adjusting his posture then holding out a hand to shake. “Matt Murdock,” he introduces smoothly, pasting on a fake grin that could be read as charming. “Your alter is in the habit of calling me Red.”

Marc doesn’t shake Murdock’s hand, instead drying off the condensation that’s gathered on his hand. “And when exactly did you two meet?”

He’s got a good guess, but Marc wants to establish that he’s the one asking questions here. He’s not going to walk away, because Steven will just take them right back, but he’s not playing along to whatever their third was trying to do. After taking the body to an entire other country, he’s made it pretty clear he’s a loose cannon.

Murdock drops his hand back to his lap, but still tells, “Spring 2020. He was a close friend of mine, and I lost a lot of those to the blip.”

He better not be going for the sympathy card, because Marc doesn’t care. He didn’t lose time with Layla to the blip, and at the time she’d been half his world.

Switching topics, Marc demands, “So what’s this meeting about, exactly?”

Murdock places his folded hands on the table. “Jake was hoping I could act as a liaison between him and his alters, as he’s found it difficult to communicate in the way others in your head do. He was also curious if being in a more familiar environment, with positive triggers, would allow him to become… co-conscious, if I’m remembering the correct term.”

That? There’s way too much to parse in all of that, and not enough socially acceptable time to do so.

His name is Jake, he’s a friend of whoever the hell this Murdock guy is, and he considers New York City, and possibly this diner, a familiar location.

“Co-conscious works,” Marc offers offhandedly. “So his name’s Jake? Got a last name?”

“I’d prefer to get at least one of those from you, first,” Murdock shoots back.

“Jake didn’t give our names to you?”

“Didn’t want to assume. This is our first conversation, after all.”

Well, fuck. That means Murdock has his name, because it’s the body’s legal name as well and therefore the most obvious name to mention. Steven might be safe, but he can’t confirm it.

“Marc,” he tells Murdock. “You’re talking to Marc right now.”

“Marc,” Murdock repeats. “Would you mind telling me what you currently know about Jake?”

Before he can stop himself, Marc spits, “He’s a violent asshole.”

Murdock smirks, finding this summary amusing. “Well, then, let’s start there.”

“What are you, a therapist?” Marc demands.

“A lawyer,” Murdock deadpans. “Off the clock, though, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

Marc looks Murdock over. He’s not sure what he’d expect a lawyer to look like, but he lacks a briefcase, suit, or tie, so Murdock being off the clock mostly checks out.

After a pause, Murdock continues, “So, just so you’re aware, what I’m about to reference is a discussion that was had while me and Jake were both shit-faced, so take this memory with a grain of salt, but Jake has previously told me that he often wakes up surrounded by individuals attempting to kill him, and lacks any context as to why.”

“And then I wake up surrounded by dead bodies,” Marc shoots back.

Murdock grimaces. “I don’t approve of all of his methods. We have a no-kill deal when he’s in my territory.”

Oh, hell no.

“You with a gang?” Marc accuses.

“Absolutely not,” Murdock snaps, a small growl slipping into his voice. Quietly, he adds, “Different kind of territory. Not something that I can talk about in public, but it’s a similar level of flashy to your own gimmick.”

Marc allows himself a few seconds to translate that.

Murdock, he thinks, is implying that he’s a vigilante that worked with Moon Knight back when the body was in a contract with Khonshu. Marc can only grasp at straws for who the guy might be.

“Anyway,” Murdock continues, raising his voice back to a more normal volume, “I do not approve of doing it when it is not necessary, but I do understand retaliating with equal force while under stress. It certainly wouldn’t hold up in court, but both of us know we’re already risking jail time.”

“I bet you’re great legal counsel,” Marc comments, definitely not deflecting and definitely not defending himself to Steven even though he doesn’t seem to be around at the moment.

Taking in stride, Murdock responds, “I’m a defense lawyer.”

Marc wonders if Murdock has realised how easy a background check is going to be. Being friends with one guy in the body doesn’t mean being friends with all of them.

“You ever have to defend Jake?” Marc prods.

Murdock shakes his head. “Luckily not. I’ve been told his fake IDs hold up under scrutiny, but that can only take you so far before you’re caught.”

Has Jake been using one of Marc’s fakes? Or was he just calling Marc’s original IDs fake?

That can be a question for later, most likely when they have to fly back to London.

“Most lawyers aren’t alright with any law breaking,” Marc reiterates, because that feels extremely important. What if this is just a subtle way of dragging confessions out of him?

“I make exceptions. Look up the trial of Frank Castle when you get the chance. I’d love to talk through my thought process during that with someone new sometime.”

It rings a faint bell, but Marc will have to add that to the list of things to research.

“Well, then,” Marc says, leaning back in his seat and starting to mirror Murdock’s position. “Have you ever killed someone, Murdock?”

He grimaces, but there’s little hesitation when he responds, “I’ve been too late to get someone help, and I won’t pretend I’ve never thought about it before, but I try my hardest not to cross that line. There are some people deserving of punishment, but never the uncertainty of death.

Marc can get behind that. His ideology has only the slightest bit more wiggle room.

“You can understand why I don’t like my body being used for that, then,” Marc prods.

“I believe it’s as much his body as it is yours,” Murdocks responds without missing a beat. “It’s not as though he could use another one. There is reason to be concerned, of course, especially when there is no set-in-stone way of prosecuting someone diagnosed with DID, meaning the consequences of his actions could very well fall to you, but I believe you are different individuals and should not be punished for the actions of your alters.”

Marc’s pretty sure at least half of that was scripted. No way he came up with all that on command.

“Furthermore,” Murdock continues, and come on, that’s not a word someone uses without thinking on it in advance, “Considering you were not present in the body during the blip, which was caused by something known as the soul stone, and were returned by the same soul stone, I’d consider that clear evidence of you and your alters having separate souls.”

Okay, so, here’s the thing. Marc hasn’t ever told anyone about his DID who isn’t Steven (and thus part of the system), and Layla and Frenchie, as far as he can tell, are the only ones filled in on it outside of his head. He’s not really sure what to do with a complete stranger so easily agreeing that everyone in the system is, in fact, their own person.

So he fumbles, and nobody picks up the conversation for him, instead he only gains awareness of their quickly growing headache.

Murdock waits for him, taking a small sip from his own glass of cold water.

Marc runs a hand through his hair, gets stopped by the hat yet again, and shoves the hat into his lap. Diverting from the minefield that is discussing potential sentencing, Marc says, “Okay, so to recap: You met this Jake guy during the blip when, apparently, he was operating in the body without me and– our other frequent guy, fronter, whatever the hell.” Some of the terms they picked up on the research binge are useful, but Marc’s still getting used to them. He and Steven were operating fine without the research, so he’s not sure why Jake insisted, but Marc’s trying, here.

“He was doing jobs for our old boss with you,” Marc continues, trying to avoid saying anything too incriminating, “But you did it with… more standards, rules, morals. You also have a more set operating range somewhere in this city. At some point, Jake disclosed medical information to you. He considers you a trusted ally, which is further proven because he’s using you as, what, a mouthpiece?”

Murdock nods along easily, only pausing at the end. “I wouldn’t say a mouthpiece? With my being a lawyer, I tend to be more articulate than he is, but that’s mostly a happy coincidence on his part, since we met after hours. I can easily imagine a conversation between you and Jake involving some form of violence.”

Marc’s first thought at violence is the bodies in Cairo, waking up with blood staining his hands and only the kid left standing.

He looks at the slight quirk to Murdock’s lips and tries to readjust to weapons-free impromptu wrestling match.

“Did he give you talking points?” Marc prompts. “Flashcards?”

Smile stretching wider, Murdock explains with good humour, “I was told I’d either talk to him, a suspicious bastard, or a sweet man with minor social anxiety, and the goal was to establish that everyone in your body is, in fact, a person, and not just a robot with the urge to murder, or work, or drive, or forget, or any specific task, so I believe that goal’s been accomplished.”

“Excuse me?” Marc demands.

Murdock holds up a hand to stop the tangent Marc’s building in its tracks. “Jake has expressed to me that he feels as though he’s been seen so far only as the murder guy in the eyes of one or more of his alters. He was hoping that since he could not have a live conversation with you, that I as a friend of his would be a could choice to help you in seeing him as a person.”

Well, Marc’s not that bad. Crossing his arms, Marc insists, “There were options aside from dragging the body to a whole other continent.”

“He’s dramatic,” Murdock concedes. “Congrats, that’s a new fact for you to write down once you’ve left.”

Before Marc can even think of another response, Murdock goes rigid, head slowly tilting to one side. Marc freezes in return, knowing not to doubt someone’s instincts without cause, and he waits for Murdock’s sign.

It takes 30 seconds, but Murdock readjusts himself, grabbing a bill from his pocket and setting it flat on the table. Lowly, he explains, “There’s someone coming this way who was talking about Marc Spector into an ear piece. Didn’t sound like a friendly.”

There’s no time to question how he heard that. Marc scoots back his chair, puts the cap back on his head because he’s not going to bother with holding it, and Murdock scoots back only a second after him.

“The owner of this diner is friends with Jake,” Murdock continues, “Her apartment is in the back, she knows our identities, but she has two children who don’t. We can make a better plan once we’re away from the windows.”

As he says this, Murdock bumps shoulders with him, silently saying follow my lead as he walks toward the counter. Marc follows, pulling the cap lower on his head, hand going for a blade that he doesn’t have.

The woman at the counter, Marc’s blanking on her name, must catch something in their expressions or postures, because she’s waving them into the back immediately, keeping a pleasant smile on her face that only breaks a little at the edges.

Once the door is locked behind them, the woman rounds on them and asks, “Who’s after you?”

“Dunno,” Murdock responds immediately. “Not hearing anyone familiar. Got a scarf or bandana to hide with?”

“Scarf,” she repeats, then she dashes off deeper into the small apartment.

Without missing a beat, Murdock turns to Marc and continues, “If we can get to the rooftops without getting spotted, we can walk past most of the group and drop to the streets somewhere, pretend to be tourists or something. I have a friend with a car, he can get us to somewhere secure.”

“Ignoring the fact you have enhanced hearing without disclosing it,” Marc notes, “How many bogies we talking? There’s a lot of people who could be after me.”

“A lot,” Murdock says. “I count 5 nearing the diner, can hear two further away with the same earpieces, but there’s at least one voice on their line who I can’t pin down. Some of what they’re saying sounds like your false-god shit, if that means anything to you.”

Well, shit. Of course it’s the Ammit cultists.

Gena returns with two scarves, one in red and one in grey. She hands Murdock the red one and Marc the grey one.

Murdock ties his scarf over the top half of his head, including his eyes and nose. Marc, who was going to use his to cover his mouth and nose, hesitates.

“I’m blind,” Murdock explains, which would have been nice to know about five minutes ago, but what the fuck can Marc do about that now? “Don’t coddle me, I’ve been jumping off buildings longer than I haven’t, I can handle myself.”

He tucks his red glasses, which suddenly make a lot more sense, into his pants pocket.

“I wasn’t going to imply anything,” Marc admits, going back into motion and covering the lower half of his face with the scarf. “Just wasn’t expecting it. What kind we talking, in case it becomes relevant?”

“Zero light perception,” Murdock explains, smiling despite being tense. “Can’t read for shit, but if I don’t focus on smell or taste, I’ve got my six as covered as my front. My senses go pretty far, but if someone explodes something near me, haul me out of there like a sack of flour unless I indicate otherwise.”

No light but what essentially works out to be 200% periphery is probably an advantage in terms of dealing with Harrow’s unpredictable people, but if Murdock turns out to be a shitty fighter, Marc’s going to ditch him and hope for the best.

Gena interrupts them by ducking back to the front, the sound of the front bell jingling just before the door shuts.

Marc and Murdock go down the hall, Murdock points him to the back door, and Marc watches a blind man scale up the side of a building in barely two seconds while remaining a few movements behind.

Murdock waits at the top, and once Marc’s up, they both take off freerunning. Marc’s attention keeps flicking to any flash of colour, knowing that the cultists could find a way up here as easy as he and Murdock had, and he doesn’t have Khonshu to help him recover from any surprise stabs or slashes, let alone a gunshot. Murdock’s got range with his hearing, but Marc can’t put his faith in that.

They keep a steady pace in the same direction for as long as their stamina holds up, but even if the odds are good that they’re more athletic than most of the cultists, they know that the cultists have numbers over them.

Eventually, Murdock stops them at a rooftop access door that turns out to be unlocked, and they wait at the top of a stairway while Murdock navigates through his phone to his friend with the car, their heart rate spiking every time the phone’s electronic voice reads out what Murdock’s doing.

He places the call, and they don’t speak while they wait, just let their bodies return to a sweatier baseline.

They get lucky, because the person with the car is nearby, and because they have more common sense than Murdock, they go down the elevator instead of scaling down the side of the building.

At the front entrance, Murdock has removed the head covering and has put back his glasses, and has pulled out his cane from… somewhere. He offers his free arm to them and they take it, and they walk casually around the block to meet the car, since Murdock was rightfully cautious to not send their exact address.

They sit in the back of a car with two people in the front, one with curly blonde hair and the driver with long black, both with light-ish skin. They didn’t realise this was the car until Murdock was pulling them aside, so they didn’t get a chance to look at them from the front.

They press their pounding head to the seat in front of them as the driver starts to pull out, and if pressed they’d say it’s so that they’re not identifiable to any of Harrow’s followers at a glance.

“Hey, Jake,” the woman in the driver’s seat greets, and this is about when they realise that they’ve kind of, sort of, lost track of who’s driving the body.

“Hi,” they respond anyway, because why not. They don’t look up, though.

“Oh, you’re the Jake guy?” the blonde man asks, and there’s a shuffling that’s probably him spinning around to look into the back seat. “…Are you okay?”

“Migraine,” they white lie. “I need to lay down somewhere and hit reset.”

“Don’t we all,” the woman, Colleen, deadpans.

Right– that’s Colleen, probably. Also, probably, this might be Jake, or at least he’s got enough of Jake’s memories going on to make conversation. Even if there’s been no blackout to indicate Marc pulling out.

Still no idea on the other guy, though.

“I could try and heal you when we make it to somewhere safe,” the other guy offers. “Oh, I’m Danny, by the way.”

“Danny,” he repeats. “Fuckin’... fisting kid?”

Murdock snorts.

“Surprisingly, not the first time we’ve heard that joke,” Colleen notes. “Please refrain from making it again.”

They run over a crack or hole in the road and Jake realises that leaning forward is not a foolproof idea, especially when he didn’t fucking buckle, you know, like a moron.

“Genuinely the first thing that came to my mind,” Jake tells her. “I think I left my brain in my hotel room.”

Red taps him on the shoulder and leans across the middle seat to ask in the faintest whisper he can manage, “Fighting in there?”

Surprisingly, no.

Jake’s pretty sure the problem is more that they’ve switched several times in just the last hour, and switching is mentally taxing for most folks, so adding on the habit of their eyes rolling back and it’s not great.

They could have been fine, probably, or at least lasted the day, if not for the added stress of the return of Harrow’s followers. As is evident by the literal mental condition, they don’t do too well under stress.

He glances offhandedly out the window, but has to double-take at his reflection. It looks just as weary, but unlike the body, it seems like it’s wearing a hoodie and cargo pants.

Jake supposes that this is the mirror bullshit.

He can’t bring it up, because Colleen doesn’t know, Danny absolutely doesn’t know, and whoever’s car this is, they’ll probably be alarmed by him talking to himself in the backseat. Colleen’s a good fighter and a good person to call on for backup when Red isn’t available, but they weren’t necessarily friends.

Danny, he thinks, blipped. He’s not sure if that thought is deductive reasoning or something that he was told at some point, but it sure is in his head.

He asks Red, “Where are we actually going?” Because that’s probably important to know.

“My place or Colleen’s,” Red immediately says. “Your call.”

“Whichever’s closer. I’m only mildly exaggerating how shitty I’m feeling.”

⠀

⠀

Harrow’s followers aren’t looking for Marc Spector half-awake in the back of a non-descript grey car, so it’s not any issue to drive to Red’s apartment.

Jake doesn’t know the last time he went to Red’s apartment from the front entrance instead of the rooftop entrance, so he trails Red to the door and only gives about a minute to appreciate that, apparently, Nelson has moved in with Red before he’s passed out on the couch.

⠀

⠀

Marc wakes up with the lack of energy he used to associate with being healed back from certain death by Khonshu.

He groans, and tries to call for Steven internally even though his thoughts feel muddled with sleep.

He’s got vague recollection of getting somewhere safe, but he doesn’t think he was in control of the body by the end of it. Bright side, they’re lying somewhere comfortable, so most likely he didn’t black out for someone else to come forward.

That thought gets him to shoot up, because fucking Jake, Marc had a blissful moment of forgetting that part of the current shitstorm.

First thing he sees is a window with bright neon lights right outside it, which must be a nightmare for the tenants of this place. Then he checks behind the couch he was resting on, and sees a man he doesn’t know standing in a kitchen.

The man, long-ish dirty blonde hair and not a lot of visible muscle, gives him an easy smile and greets, “Good to see you up, Jake.”

Doesn’t seem malicious, but Marc has reason to be cautious.

He checks behind him, catching sight of a door, and he reminds himself to keep an eye on that before turning back and responding, “How long was I out?”

“Couple of hours,” he responds easily. “Danny and Colleen thought you were drugged and were about to do some sort of magical healing bullshit to help you out, but Matt said you didn’t smell drugged and he would have noticed if you were, and that you seemed like you didn’t just get enough sleep, which was a lie, but I’m not going to ask why he was making excuses for you.”

Marc doesn’t have the mildist clue who the fuck Danny is, but he thinks he can remember there being a Colleen and Matt is Murdock’s first name. Jake, because it had to be Jake, Steven is a lot of things but covert is not one of them, probably knows all these names.

“Just exhausted,” he agrees to the man, most likely an ally. Marc’s pretty sure he’s making a salad right now, which does mean the unknown has a knife in his hand, but he was also doing this while Marc was asleep.

“Right,” the man acquiesces. He brushes something off his cutting board and continues, “So, I’m not going to ask about who was going after you, but if they’re going to beat up my boyfriend, I’d like to have as much forewarning as possible. Matt’s my first speed dial, but if he’s getting back into deep shit, I’m changing it back to Claire.”

Claire’s another new name that Marc doesn’t have any ideas about, which isn’t great for faking his way through a conversation.

“Jake,” he tries to think loudly, but he’s still learning how to do anything of the sort, so he has no idea if it actually does anything. Speaking when he’s in the backseat is just speaking, but doing so silently when in control of the body is weird.

Like hell is he surrendering control, but for once he wouldn’t mind some commentary.

The unknown looks up at him suddenly, giving a look like Marc’s done something wrong, or more likely, Marc just spaced out.

“Do I need to do a concussion check?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re talking really clipped. I know you don’t know me too well, but I thought we were past that.”

If Marc told this man he has no idea who he is, it’d get a bad reaction, but it’s also a little tempting. It’d give him a chance at an out, maybe.

“Yeah, well, you’re ambushing me right after I woke up,” Marc white lies. “Can’t expect me to have a lot to say right now.”

“Fair,” the man concedes.

That seems like conversation over, so Marc walks slowly to the door behind him, noticing that there’s no light on under the door. Doesn’t mean that it’s empty, but it’s a point in that direction. One wall is taken up by a staircase leading up to a door with windows on both sides, probably a roof access door. Depending on how pickable of a lock it has, it’s either a real convenient feature or a problematic one.

It’s also another way for Marc to have a quick getaway if it comes down to it.

“Matt’s taking a pre-patrol nap,” the man pipes up, as though it’s some sort of an explanation. “I’ll get him up once dinner’s ready, but I’m letting him sleep for now.”

“I’m up!” A groggy voice calls loudly from the other side of the rolling door. “Just give me a minute, Fogs.”

‘Fogs’ gives a surprised huh before going back to the salad.

Marc’s still trying to figure this out. There’s a bedroom behind that door, which makes sense since he can’t see many other spots for a bedroom to be, and it’s probably Murdocks. This unknown, possibly going by Fogs or something that can be derived from, claims to be Murdock’s boyfriend. Both of them know Jake, but Fogs doesn’t seem to know about Marc.

He spins around when the door starts to roll open, Murdock giving a tired wave. He’s not wearing the obnoxious red glasses this time, allowing Marc a good view of his unfocused eyes.

“He has risen!” Fogs proclaims dramatically, causing Murdock to roll his eyes and head dramatically.

“Is there anyone you need to call?” Murdock asks Marc as he pauses. “Or did you travel here on your own?”

He sits on the couch, leaving his back to Fogs. He frowns dramatically and mouths Marc?

“Yeah,” he responds, then leaves a pause that’s slightly too long. “Yeah, I came alone.”

Murdock nods. Over his shoulder, he asks, “Foggy, did you tell Gena we made it out okay?”

Foggy scoffs, but he’s smiling like he’s teasing. “I didn’t even know you were with Gena. Make your own calls, Murdock. She’ll appreciate hearing from you more, anyways.”

“Doubtful,” Murdock mutters.

“Excuse me?” Foggy taunts.

“We’ve barely talked since the blip, Fogs, I have my doubts.”

“Fine. Jake, you call her, then.”

Murdock sends him a panicked expression that would give the game away in a second if Foggy could see his face. Marc realises a second too late that Foggy is talking to him and expecting to call the woman he doesn’t know right this moment. He pulls out his phone, and fakes a grimace while he quickly boots it off. “It’s dead.”

Foggy gives a dramatic groan.

“Hey, Fogs?” Murdock cuts in. “We were having a private chat before we got interrupted. You mind if we finish things up on the roof?”

“Yeah, sure,” Foggy allows easily. “Just knock before you come back in, you know the drill.”

Murdock pushes himself off the couch and nods at Marc before going for the staircase.

The view outside is something he once saw often, working as Khonshu’s fist. An overview of a metropolitan area dotted with lights, specs of life scattered far out into the distance. The moon is bright enough to cast a faint shadow on the rooftop, and it unsettles Marc in what’s probably some form of pavlovian reaction.

Murdock, hair and clothes still sleep rumpled, sits on the edge of the building with his legs dangling over the edge. His unseeing eyes stare into the distance.

“He does want to talk to you, y’know,” Murdock says idly. “Knowing him, though, he might have just used this whole setup to come and visit me.”

The atmosphere feels different than their first conversation. Marc knows he can trust Murdock this time, he’s the one who stopped things from getting ugly with Ammit’s followers. There’s no pretenses up here, either, Murdock isn’t even attempting eye contact.

“If he wanted to talk, he could have written a note instead of dragging our body halfway around the world,” Marc grumbles. “We’ve got a life set up elsewhere.”

“And he used to have a life set up here,” Murdock immediately counters. “Last time, you dragged him to New York before the blip. You couldn’t have expected it, of course, but this is his home town, and before now he hasn’t had the chance to come back.”

Marc sits down on the roof ledge, leaving plenty of distance between him and Murdock. “I heard this place was a shithole after the blip. Most major cities were.”

Murdock barks a bitter laugh. “It was terrible. It needed so much help, but everyone was too emotional to get off their asses and put in the work. Jake’s one of few who immediately went to work.”

He tries to picture it. Waking up in the midst of a massacre, grieving not the people lost but the damage caused, and committing to changing things for the better. Having a place where he’s actually happy, having a stable life, and it all being uprooted in a single day.

It’s not that hard. To an extent, he’s lived it.

His grip on the body goes hazy, and Murdock flinches, quickly moving forward and putting a hand in front of their chest to stop them from leaning forward and off the building. Someone presses their palms to the edge, leans back, and breathes deeply.

“Red, did you bring up the thing?” Jake asks.

He has an impression of Marc startling, probably having expected him to be Steven.

Red rolls his neck to accentuate his eye roll. “Kind of a hard thing to bring up, if you didn’t notice.”

“Fine, then, I’ll do it,” Jake grumbles, because miraculously, he thinks Marc might still be listening. He has the impression of someone leaning over one shoulder, and his emotions are all muddled, so it’s gotta be something. “When Steven made his deal with el gaviota, he said that Marc and Steven both would get out of working with him. That didn’t carry over to me, and he’s a real smug bastard about it. Anyone catch that?”

Red still has an arm blocking them from falling forward, which feels patrionising as fuck, but as he distantly recognises Marc’s panic as a breathless feeling even though Jake’s breathing just fine.

“His deal is with me now,” Jake continues, closing his eyes and trying to focus on the odd impression he has of his alter. He still doesn’t know how this shit works, but he’s doing better than usual, so he has to keep trying it. “He already worked with me for five years, I know he’s fine with it. I won’t let him cheat his way back into working with you, Marc.”

Marc and Steven hate Khonshu, hate being Moon Knight, hate most parts of it. Jake, though, only gets the hatred for Khonshu, he likes that he gets the chance to help those in need and he gets to beat up shitheads who hurt the lives of others. El hefe is an annoyance, and a controlling bastard at times, but there are benefits.

He’s fine that he wasn’t bargained out of it. There’s still a chance that Khonshu will try to get Marc back by proxy, but Jake won’t let that happen.

“Y’know, you should come and meet the rest of our group sometime,” Red offers, slowly lowering his arm. “You’ve only ever met Colleen, and now that everyone else is back, a debrief is probably an order.”

“I’ve met Frank, too,” Jake says, blinking harshly several times. “How many more are there?”

Red smirks at him. “You have no idea.”

⠀

⠀

Steven wakes up in a hotel room as someone is knocking on the door.

He groggily makes his way to the door, trying to comb his curls into order with one hand as he bends down to look through the peephole.

On the other side is Layla, appearing both angry and worried.

Steven quickly unlatches the door and asks, “Love?”

Layla heaves out a heavy sigh, and nudges him back so she can step into the room. She leans against the door to shut it, and then demands in a carefully quiet voice, “Do you know how worried I was when I saw your tracker was out of the country?”

“In our defence,” Steven says meekly, even though he’s not sure whether or not Marc’s awake, “This was entirely our third’s doing.”

That seems to knock a lot of the wind out of her sails, and she groans. “This is starting to become a pattern with you all.”

“Well, with any luck, this will be the last time. I’d have to debrief with Marc, however, I blanked out most of the day.”

“He up?” Layla asks.

Steven moves back for the bed, kicking their bag off the side and onto the floor so that Layla can rest on the other side if she wants. “Don’t think so. Hasn’t given any of his usual commentary.”

“A shame,” she says dramatically, immediately taking the offered side of the bed. “Suppose we’ll just have to sleep off the ordeal of travelling to another continent.”

“Truly, what a travesty,” Steven returns, smiling widely.

⠀

⠀

They bring up fruit from the hotel breakfast and sprawl on the bed to talk it all out.

Marc brings up Khonshu immediately. The knowledge that he still has power over them is overwhelming, and he gets hit with another wave of anxiety as Steven finally catches up with that knowledge bomb.

Layla squeezes their hand tight and says, “You couldn’t have known.”

“Could have guessed,” Steven counters. “We knew about the blackouts when we made that deal, we should have worded our deal better just in case.”

“There was a lot going on,” she counters. She’s anxious, too, it shows in her voice, but she’s here for them as always. “I doubt the possibility of there being someone else was even the tenth thing on your minds between going to the Duat and Ammit being unleashed.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” Marc snaps. “Khonshu still has us, and now that we know, he’s going to start forcing me into missions again.”

The lights flicker.

Khonshu’s imposing figure manifests at the foot of the bed, and they both shoot up. Layla shoots out one arm, reaching back to her metal wing to draw a blade.

“I will not break the terms of our deal,” Khonshu booms, grip tight on his staff. “Jake Lockley will perform the duties of my fist.”

“And who the hell is Jake Lockley?” Steven demands.

“Our third,” Marc frantically fills in.

“Is he the third alter?” Layla asks, sharp as ever.

Khonshu, despite barely moving, gives off the sudden impression that he’s sneering at them.

“You already knew who my current fist is,” he rumbles. “You should not need confirmation.”

Steven decides that he’s not having this. “If you’re not using me or Marc as your fist, then piss off! We don’t belong to you, you have no need to talk to us!”

“I have a right to talk to Jake Lockley,” Khonshu insists, leaning down so that his beak is only a few feet away. “As long as he is present, I have a right to speak.”

They pause.

Marc and Steven are sharing the figurative wheel in the way they learned to in the final fight with Harrow. Neither of them clocked anyone else listening in, but Khonshu is insistent, and for all his faults, he seemed to understand Marc and Steven being their own people just fine.

So Steven pulls back, the body slow blinks, and it’s Jake who snarls, “¿Qué carajo haciendo aquí?” Then, switching back to English, because the rest comes off equally as angry in either language, “You said you’d keep away from them, birdy.”

“They were discussing me.”

“Yeah, well, that wasn’t a fuckin’ invitation, so go back to whatever nest you crawled out of this time. I’ll go back to doing your dirty work later.”

“And what if I have need for you now?” Khonshu taunts.

“We both work better at night, don’t pretend.”

He finally clocks that Layla is at his side, staring at him with an expression he’s not sure how to read.

Outside the confines of pretending to be Marc until they switch, Jake’s never interacted with her before. And, considering the conversation, he can’t pull that off anymore.

“Well, let’s hear it,” he grumbles, “Don’t pretend you have nothing to say.”

She purses her lips. Seems to weigh her options.

“Thanks.”

And that shit throws him right for a loop.

“You keep them both safe,” she continues, “and you have their best interests in mind. That’s all I need to know for now.”

Aha– fuck no.

Jake checks out.

⠀

⠀

He gets a single patrol in with Red before their flight back to London.

Getting the rest of them to agree with it is exactly like pulling teeth, and he’s pretty sure he’s got a peanut gallery sticking around in the back of his head, but Jake can’t give much of a shit when he’s back to bouncing through Hell’s Kitchen rooftops.

Red says that the costume sounds different, which is bullshit, and he gives a sarcastic clap on the back when Jake explains that he’s optimised it for stealth as far as Khonshu would allow. Before they set off for the night, Foggy peaks out the roof access to taunt, “Have a nice playdate,” and Marc is definitely listening because someone’s laughing their ass off in the back of Jake’s head.

So things aren’t good. Nobody’s happy that Jake works with the bird and Steven’s had three separate freakouts about losing his job even though Jake remembered to call in sick, and it Marc a day but he figured out that Jake’s using his old Hebrew name and is having capital f Feelings about it, and Layla has no clue how to talk to him, but in the meantime, it’s working.

They’re getting there, despite everything.