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Chapter Text

Breaking into the warehouse, it turns out, was the easy part. Whatever super-cool magic wards are keeping out sorcerers and witches and other non-divine magical types, they apparently aren't calibrated to block the Fist of Khonshu.

The hard part is when Marc finds himself standing in front of a shelf with like fifty little jars, and Khonshu only wants one of them.

Steven, please say you can tell the difference between these things.

What, you mean you can't?

Just help me out, here, implores Marc, and the Khonshu-given ceremonial armor turns into the plain white suit Steven came up with on his own.

Steven looks the shelf up and down, comparing hieroglyphs and animal-head-shaped carvings and, Marc doesn't even know, stone quality or something. After a few minutes, he scoops one of them up.

Still no wards, no blaring alarms, no sign of anybody about to stop them. Marc thinks it feels way too easy. He doesn't swap back -- Steven's gotten good at the quiet sneaking part of the job -- but he's on high alert as they sneak back out.

Sure enough, out of nowhere the passage lights up with a whirl of red-orange sparks, irising outward into a portal big enough for a guy in a red cape to hop through.

Marc takes back the body, his own (bigger) cape swirling out behind him, and uses his free hand to draw a crescent dart.

"Oh, come on, let's not do that," says the sorcerer, flicking his fingers.

A band of bluish light clamps around Marc's wrist and drags him backward, then up -- not far, just enough that his feet leave the ground. It's painfully similar to the time he tried to throw a punch at Harrow in the Great Pyramid, and a god cuffed his hand to force it away. The dart clatters to the floor.

Clearly, this is Jake's moment to shine. Marc is having a bad time, and Steven doesn't have the core strength to draw his knees up to his chest, ready to give the sorcerer one hell of a kick if he comes any closer. The creepy Egyptian mummy outfit dissolves into Jake's way-cooler mostly-black armor.

"Another new outfit? Geez, you really have one for every occasion," says the guy, who is (as Steven helpfully feeds into Jake's mind) the famous Doctor Strange. "What are you stealing? Gold? Jewels? Artifacts of indescribable magical power?"

"Jar," says Jake, holding it up. "Of, uh, rock, I think."

Doctor Strange raises his eyebrows. "Seriously? That? Never managed to make that do anything. Before we put it in storage, we were using it as a paperweight."

If Khonshu sent us all this way to fetch his favorite paperweight, Jake informs his headmates, I'm going to murder the bird myself.

The sorcerer starts throwing some kind of whooshy magic all around them, which Jake knows he's probably helpless to stop, but kicks his foot through just in case.

Apparently it's just the dramatic superhero equivalent of those metal-detector wands they run over you at the airport: "Wow, you actually did not grab anything else. Um...look, if you really want that? I guess you can have it."

Jake doesn't trust this at all. "...What's the catch?"

"No catch," says Doctor Strange. "Just one question," he adds, like that isn't a catch. "How did your costume instantly change like that?"

Jake stares at the sorcerer.

The sorcerer stares at Jake.

"Magic," says Jake.

A couple seconds later, Doctor Strange shrugs and says, "Checks out." He lowers them to the ground and banishes the cuff. "No further questions."

Chapter Text

"Werewolf attacks local bar on karaoke night" sounds like something out of a Villain Mad Libs book, but no, this is just Marc's life now.

A couple of people take charge of hustling all the other patrons out of there while Marc tackles the creature. They slide all the way down the bar in a shower of breaking glasses.

Don't kill them! thinks Steven urgently. This person's not like Harrow's jackals, they're a human underneath. An innocent one! Far as we know, anyway! 

"Might not give me much of a choice, buddy!" hisses Marc, as the wolf digs its claws into the surface for leverage and flips them over, jaws snapping. At first they only get metal armor plates, then empty air, but if they get a better angle --

Let me at it, compañero, presses Jake, just let it try chomping on me.

But they're trying so hard not to switch that visibly in public. And Marc isn't sure everyone's out of there. And besides, he's still handling this. Mostly. "Not--ye--"

A leg sweeps out of nowhere and kicks the werewolf square in the jaw.

Next thing Marc knows, some random guy in a red jacket has tackled it clear off him and is...kickboxing it? Kung-fu fighting it?

Keeping it busy, that's the important part.

What, you don't know the fancy names for those moves? thinks Jake, as Marc swings to his feet and checks to make sure all the rips on the suit are self-repairing. Then: Maldición, those are some nice moves.

"I don't know every martial art," mutters Marc testily. "And it seems like this guy might."

Sure enough, the guy does some...qi blocks, or nerve jabs, or whatever, and the wolf goes down.

"That's an actual werewolf, right?" calls a hoarse voice from behind him. It's a woman, same brand of jacket as the guy, but without the expert combat stance. She's holding a broken bottle by the neck -- not bad for an improvised weapon, even if her grip is all wrong. "Shang? It didn't bite you, right? Also, hi there moon-dude, didn't mean to leave you out. You okay?"

An awkward scramble of conversation later, they've established that: (1) the werewolf isn't dead, just knocked out, luckily it has the same pressure points as a human; (2) Marc didn't have an actual plan for what to do with it after neutralizing the threat, but these two know a guy; and (3) their names are Shang-Chi and Katy, while they can just call him Moon Knight, thanks.

Is he magic? asks Steven. I'm getting serious supernatural vibes off him, is anyone else feeling this?

"If he has powers, he hasn't used them yet," says Marc under his breath.

Not far enough under, apparently. Shang-Chi subtly edges over to put himself between Marc and Katy. "Who are you talking to?"

Marc tenses. "None of your business."

"Not good enough." Shang-Chi lifts his arms -- not into a specific fighting stance Marc recognizes, but not a casual motion, either. He's got a dancer's grace, and the bad vibes are intensifying. "We haven't had great experiences with people listening to voices nobody else can hear."

"Okay, let's everybody take it down a notch, huh?" protests Katy, coming up beside him. "Shang, cool it, there doesn't have to be another soul-sucker here. Maybe he sees ghosts! He's kind of a mummy, it would be on-brand. Or some other kind of spirits, you know Wong and Doc Strange talk to those all the time. Or he could just have an invisible friend! Are invisible people a thing yet...?"

"There's a microphone in the cowl," says Marc.

"What?"

"Microphone. And earpiece. In the cowl." Marc taps the side of his head, in case they're not sure where his ears are. "Sometimes I need research or whatever, so I've got a guy for that."

"Oh my god," says Katy, putting down the bottle and giving Shang-Chi a friendly punch in the shoulder. He rolls his eyes, but relaxes, and the unnatural aura around him tamps down. "We were so worried about soul-suckers and invisible people, we forgot about the existence of radio."

Chapter Text

After a disappointingly thin night of fact-finding, Jake is driving the cab back toward the garage and listening to Steven and Marc argue about what kind of pizza to order, when Marc says, Go back, go back!

"Back where?"

Under the bridge -- just now -- thought I saw someone in trouble.

Jake circles the car around and passes the turnoff again, scanning the pavement for bodies -- nothing in sight, just the usual city garbage -- until Marc levers their head upward.

That sure is a dude in spandex, two stories off the ground, sitting sideways on a stone-and-metal pillar like his personal gravity is tilted the wrong way. He's also hunched-over and tense, one arm curled around his torso. It's too dark in the shadows to see if there's any blood, but he doesn't look like he's having the greatest time, that's for sure.

Jake rolls down the window and leans out. "Oy, arañito. ¿Estás bien?"

Spider-Man startles. "Um. Hi? I'm...fine, thanks?"

I don't think he speaks Spanish, says Marc helpfully.

I've seen the YouTube clips of him too, compañero, snaps Jake. You're so smart, why don't you talk to him.

And then Marc is in the body, scrambling to pick up the conversation. "You, uh, you don't look fine, buddy. Can I give you a ride somewhere?"

"It's really okay!" protests Spider-Man, voice cracking. "I heal really, really fast. Part of the superpowers. Just need a couple minutes, then I'll be outta here."

Oh my god, Spider-Man sounds like a teenager, thinks Marc.

He's not good with kids. Especially when there's any kind of danger around kids. Worst-case scenario, he completely freezes up and panics around kids...

Steven nudges him aside, takes over, and summons the mask. Not the whole suit, just the part that covers his head, whirling into place out of nowhere and making his eyes glow like they've got LEDs inside.

"I heal really, really fast too," says Steven. "Doesn't mean I have to go harder on myself by turning down a ride, yeah? Not if someone's offering. You don't have to say your exact address, let's just get you somewhere close, awright?"

Khonshu's armor doesn't just heal/fly/make weapons, it also gives them supernaturally-good night vision. There's definitely blood on the spider-suit.

"And if you're worried about, um, leaking -- there's a blanket we can put down over the seats."

Once they have Spider-Kid in the back seat, Jake swaps back in without having to be asked. He's not letting either Marc or Steven actually drive a precious baby like this. Marc handles cars like a maniac with a death wish, Steven handles them like a nervous abuelito who doesn't remember which side of the street they're supposed to be on.

"The ride's on the house, in case that wasn't clear," says Jake. En inglés, because he speaks it just fine if he has to, thank you very much. He'd be happy to offer unlimited free rides in the future, but he doesn't know how much longer they'll be in New York.

"Wow, thanks," breathes the kid. "I was really hoping, because I don't carry cash in the suit, and I can't just...hang on, did your voice change?"

Jake scoffs. "What, you mean you don't do a different voice when you're in superhero mode?"

"...Um. No," stammers Spider-Kid. "That's...kind of a really good idea, though? Maybe I should start."

Chapter Text

It isn't their first accidental team-up with Captain America and the Winter Soldier -- frankly, at this point Marc is 80% sure they're not accidental -- but it's definitely the worst one.

Seriously: three heroes with flying powers, and they let the Ten Rings assassin (which they, in a "lucky total coincidence," all turned out to be pursuing at the same time) lure them into the sewers? Goddamn amateur hour, over here.

Moon Knight is at the back of the group, already having a bad time, when some chunk of the crumbling rock gives up its last bit of structural integrity under his feet.

In a split second everything goes from uncomfortably cave-like to this is literally a cave and it's flooding and we're trapped and going to drown--

We're not going to drown, Marc, thinks Jake urgently. Legs are pinned, that's all -- this water is absolutely goddamn disgusting, but it's only up to our knees, just gotta--

Marc barely hears it. His ears are full of a roaring, rushing void, his vision darkening around the edges as the last figure ahead of them (Cap, the new version, which means he's easy to see in neon-white spandex) vanishes around a bend.

He thinks he screams, but no sound comes out. He thinks the cowl is strangling him, but he dispels all the cloth around his head and neck with a thought, and he still can't breathe...

A la verga, this is a switching emergency if Jake ever saw one. Marc can flip out at him about it later. He pulls Marc aside, takes the body, ready to fight their way out of this thing...

...and gets swamped in the face with Marc's flashback. The grotty sewer bricks morph into granite cave walls with deep shadows -- ay Dios, they're closing in. And the water is rising -- there are no exits left -- no point yelling for help because nobody's coming...

Steven pulls both of them aside. He's the one who's got the emotional buffers for this, isn't he. Might not have the pointy cutting weapons, but he can bloody well call for help...

...only he's not sure he makes it into the body.

...at least, not all the way.

Everything around him is unreal, blurred and floaty, like he's having a waking dream...

This has happened to Steven before, he thinks vaguely. Last time he remembers it was when he got fired...sitting in the HR office, soft corporate-speak washing over him as he tried to keep up with the right responses, barely able to focus on one object at a time if he worked really hard at it...

He can do that here too, can't he? They'll come back for him. Just got to wait it out. Until then, he'll focus on breathing...

...

...

...

...footsteps. People running toward him...

Someone touches his face, tries to meet his eyes, asks a question he can't follow...

...

...

...they're cutting and digging away at the crumbled stone. His legs come free...

"Careful," says someone, "if they've been compressed for too long, he could have--"

"Anything physical, he can heal it," says someone else. A woman. The question-asker. "Just help me get him into the fresh air."

...

...he's walking, stumbling along, each arm slung heavily over somebody's shoulders...

...he's outside.

Fresh air.

An engine roars, too loud. Somewhere close...

"We've gotta go, Scarab. If they take off now, we'll never catch up."

"So we won't catch up," says the woman. Layla. Says Layla. "I'm not leaving him alone."

"I'll stay with him."

"You don't know what he's--"

"Is it superhuman trauma stuff?" interrupts the guy. "Because I know superhuman trauma stuff."

...

"...I'm the idiot who can't fly, you'd be leaving me anyway -- go. I got this."

...

...

...he's sitting in the scrubby grass at the edge of a parking lot, sheltered by a row of shipping trucks on one side and a short concrete wall on the other.

The night sky is clouded-over. Slanted stripes of dull sodium-yellow light fall between the trucks. Everything else is dark, squat gray buildings and tall metal structures breaking up the gloomy skyline.

Grounding, thinks Steven on reflex. Let's name five things we can see. One, a row of shipping trucks...there's at least five in the row, gosh, that could count as all five...

Our night vision shouldn't be this bad, thinks Marc, and puts a hand to his face.

It's bare.

He snaps back into the body -- hadn't even noticed his legs were cold, until Steven's soaked-through shoes and trousers get replaced by a fresh dry set of Marc's boots -- and re-summons the hood.

"Whoa," says a voice. "Does that mean you're back with us? Tell me five things you can see."

Marc looks with a start at the Winter Soldier.

The guy is sitting next to them with some kind of holo-tech projecting from his arm. Which he switches off, but not fast enough.

"One, a babysitter," says Marc testily. "Two, a game of Candy Crush."

"Yeah, I always thought that was a stupid exercise too," says Barnes. "My old therapist was always on me to make more general lists. Sports teams, colors, stuff like that. Never mind that all my sports knowledge was eighty years out-of-date even before I got Blipped, and what do I know from colors? Steve was the artist. He's the one who knew a million colors."

He means Steve Rogers, not you, thinks Marc, to soothe the paranoid little chill from the Steven in his head. Out loud, he says, "Are you gonna ask...you know...any real questions about what just happened?"

"Would you give me real answers?"

Marc's hesitation is long enough to speak for itself.

"Well, there you go," says Barnes, making a vague gesture with his non-metal arm. "Look, I'm gonna treat you as compromised until your partner gets back and evaluates you, no matter what you say. So why hassle you to say anything?"

Hey, I like this guy, thinks Jake. How come we don't work with him more?

He's probably making his own assumptions about the stuff he's just seen, puts in Steven, not quite as charmed. Whether we confirm them or not...it would be nice to know what they are.

Marc repeats that last part out loud.

"Hey, Sam's the smart one. I only analyze things long enough to make sure I'm punching the right people," protests Barnes. "I'll guess if you want, but you're not allowed to be offended -- if I'm wrong, it's your own fault."

The your own fault nearly knocks Marc out of his skin again. He only makes it through because the others are right behind him, so close and present that it feels like they're physically leaning against his back, not letting him fall. "Go for it."

"Let's see...I'm guessing the three-piece suit there was some kind of low-power mode. When you can't keep up the full magic hero outfit, but it's not safe to drop all the way back to normal."

I resent that, thinks Steven. I am not low-power mode, I am rescue mode.

No kidding. For once, Jake sounds unnervingly sincere. Don't worry, hermano, we know better.

Barnes has more. "I figure you were having a PTSD moment back there. Or close enough. Don't look at me like that -- I'm not grilling you for details."

Marc touches his face, just in case he's dispelled the cowl again. He hasn't. "How do you know how I was looking at you?"

"Because I know how I look at people," says Barnes dryly. "Which reminds me, one more thing -- I figure somebody's coordinating our missions so we keep 'coincidentally' running into each other."

"Oh, thank god, it's not just me," breathes Marc. "I keep meaning to ask La--Scarlet Scarab if she's trying to finagle us an invite to the Avengers."

"Sam just feels like I should have more friends, so I was guessing he's setting us up on play-dates." Barnes rolls his eyes. "Isn't it great to have partners who meddle?"

"The greatest."

Marc was trying to sound sarcastic there. He's not sure it came out right.

Something pulls Barnes' attention to the sky. When Marc follows his gaze, they can see the tiny figures of Cap and Layla soaring back toward them, white and gold against the velvet black. He gets to his feet, and Barnes follows.

"Before they get here," says Barnes, still watching the sky rather than trying to make eye contact. "I'll only say this once, and then never bother you again. If you ever want someone to talk to...someone who's good at their job, and has a handle on supervillain trauma in particular...I've got a connection in Wakanda. I can hook you up."

Marc is definitely not taking them up on it. Any competent super-therapist would start poking holes in their cover stories sooner or later. But it's a nice gesture. "Appreciate the thought."

"Don't mention it."

After a long pause, Marc adds quietly, "It's not supervillain trauma."

Barnes makes a noncommittal "hm?" sound. Like it's all the same to him whether Marc wants to elaborate on that. (In the back of his head, there's a much-less-subtle feeling of Steven and Jake both laser-focusing all their attention on what he says next.)

Marc waits until Cap and Layla are moments away from hearing range, then gives the shortest possible follow-up: "I was in the Marines. Before."

Which is absolutely steering their audience into the wrong conclusion, but screw it, it's not technically a lie. If anything, it's more truth than they've revealed to every non-Layla person in the world put together. Ten whole words of it!

If Barnes doesn't use it to screw them over, maybe some time in the future he'll go for twelve.

Chapter Text

The last of the drug-runners tries to sneak out the back of the parking garage, but he's not sneaky enough. Marc whips around and throws a crescent dart at the same time as Barton shoots a weird goop-arrow, and the guy gets pinned to the wall twice over.

"Sharp enough to embed in solid concrete!" says an admiring King T'Challa from on top of a van. (The cab is half-ripped-apart from where it smashed against the iron railings between levels. He's singlehandedly keeping the trailer from tipping over the bars and smashing the next car down.) "The weapons of the moon are formidable."

"Yeah, yeah, that's why I brought the goop. Wouldn't even try to out-sharp you guys." Barton stows his bow, then turns to Marc and narrows his eyes. "Who were you talking to?"

"Microphone. And earpiece. In the cowl." Marc bounds over to help T'Challa, giving Barton's intense gaze as little attention as possible. He taps the side of his head mid-jump, in case Hawkeye and Black Panther aren't sure where his ears are. "Sometimes I need research or whatever, so I've got a guy for that."

T'Challa nods sagely, but Barton doesn't budge. "In the cowl?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"How does 'your guy' hear anything?" Barton underlines his skepticism with actual finger-quotes. "How are you not getting constant wind interference from the fabric flapping around?"

All of a sudden, Marc's body is wholly occupied with the task of re-positioning this truck, so he cannot possibly answer right away.

Anyone got an answer for that? he asks desperately. (At least he remembers to keep it internal this time.)

Oh, no, he's got hearing aids, remembers Steven. He knows how audio devices actually work! He'll see right through this -- hear right through it, rather -- he knows we're full of it...

"...Is that a problem for outsider technology?" asks T'Challa, sounding amused. "I had no idea."

Barton throws up his hands. "Dammit, T'Challa, you have super-microphones in Wakanda and you haven't shared them yet?"

"I am sorry, my friend! I will talk to Shuri and make sure they go to the top of the list."

*

When all the imminent smashing danger has been tidied up, and Barton has taken off (some kind of pre-scheduled family phone call), T'Challa says mildly, "You may be wondering why I covered for you."

"Don't know what you're talking about," says Marc -- bland on the outside, frantically trying to remember if he switched during the fight on the inside. (There's no way for T'Challa to be sure a guy doesn't have black-market Wakandan mic tech, is there...?)

"It's all right, I understand," says the King. "Gods can be very particular about talking to people beyond their own servants. And from what I hear, Khonshu is more particular than most."

How did he know--? Steven perks up, mind racing. Oh, gosh, is he an Avatar too? That's right, some of the Wakandan gods were originally Egyptian -- including the panther goddess Bast -- Marc, ask if he's the--

I can't ask about that, thinks Marc. Which is a pain, because now he kind of wants to know, actually. Khonshu would know it already, which messes up the cover story that I'm talking to Khonshu.

Out loud, he says, "That is the most flawlessly diplomatic way I have ever heard someone say 'he's a pushy, self-important dick that nobody else in the pantheon wants to talk to anymore and it's mostly his own fault.' I'm impressed."

Chapter Text

Not everyone made it to the museum exits when the alarms went off – some went for bathrooms, others crashed through Staff Only doors, and so on. Once the battle is over, Marc and Layla duck into a darkened mini-theater room and drop the costumes, planning to pose as more of the confused tourists who missed the EXIT signs.

Also, Steven switches with Marc. Partly because he has the best "confused tourist" impression, partly because, gosh, that was absolutely wild and he has got to talk about it.

Layla beats him to it: "Can you believe it? For once, the mysterious artifact was really aliens!"

"Not ancient aliens, though," adds Steven hastily. "Colonial American aliens. Few hundred years ago, that's hardly ancient."

Layla grins in the soft blue light of the screen, museum logo gently sailing across it. "Americans think it is."

"Well, bugger Americans," laughs Steven. "Speaking of Unsolved Mysteries…that wasn't a human-looking alien with the Guardians, was it? I heard right – that was Peter Quill?"

"It absolutely was. The one missing child who it turns out was abducted by friendly aliens." Layla pauses. "Or maybe he was a lost alien baby the whole time, and his parents just came to pick him up? I guess we didn't ask."

She turns to look at the door, and Steven notices something tangled in her curls. "Here, love, you've got a bit of shmutz in your hair."

"Hm? Where?"

"Hold still, I'll just…"

She holds still while he extracts it, gently, using both hands to work it out. He gives it some extra scrutiny just in case it's, oh, an alien tracking device or what have you -- but no, looks like it really is just a bit of sticky plastic from when they took that shortcut through the gift shop.

Steven squishes it up in a ball with one hand, then belatedly notices that he's still not-quite-caressing Layla with the other. "Got it," he stammers, dropping his arm.

Eyes sparkling, Layla raises her hand to brush some curls out of Steven's face, and leaves it cupping his cheek. "Thank you."

He's still never quite sure when it's a Kiss Moment, but in the back of his head there's a shove from Marc and Jake so intense that Steven physically stumbles forward. Layla leans in the rest of the way, their mouths meet, then his arms are wrapped around her and he's got the most delightful fizzy feelings going all through the body right down to the toes.

A minute or so later, they come up for air, and Layla rests her forehead against his. "We should leave separately. You want to go first?"

"Yeah, all right," pants Steven. "See you at the hotel."

He slips gently out of the room and around a corner...

...and a small growly voice says, "Real interesting conversation you were having in there, pal."

Steven whirls around.

The famous Rocket Raccoon -- chatty, furry-faced, heavily-armed -- is sitting on a waist-level display case. His ring-furred tail casts a swishing shadow on what are presumably George Washington's dinner plates.

"I heard everything," he gloats. "I know your little secret."

"Um," stammers Steven. "What secret is that?"

"Aw, don't play dumb with me." The raccoon (well, this one's almost certainly an alien, but he looks like a raccoon) grins, showing all his pointy little teeth. "You're makin' it with Moon Knight's wife!"

Steven's jaw drops.

"Don't wanna scare you," continues Rocket, sounding very much like he would love to scare Steven, "but I saw the guy fight just now, and, well -- I don't think much of your chances if he finds out about it, you follow me? So. If I'm gonna keep it quiet...what's that worth to you?"

Let me swap in, whispers Jake over Steven's shoulder. Always kinda wanted to fight Ranger Rick.

Steven responds with a light non-verbal mental shove. Wouldn't physically shut down the voices in his head if they wanted to fight about it, but they obligingly fade into silence. Out loud, he says, "What makes you think Moon Knight doesn't know about this already?"

Rocket scoffs. "Because male humans are dumb possessive hormone monsters, who would never be mature enough to sit back and chill when something like that was going on. Obviously."

"Setting aside the many, many levels on which that is personally insulting," huffs Steven, "I didn't say anything about Moon Knight sitting back while we get it on, now did I?"

The raccoon stutters. Then snarls. "You're bluffing."

"Am not."

"Prove it."

"How?"

"What's he look like? Under the mask?"

"Hot," says Steven immediately.

"Oh, come on, you could just be saying--"

"Look, I'm not giving you enough to pick him out of a lineup, yeah?" Steven puts his hands on his hips. "Secret identity, and all that. But he's deadly handsome. Gorgeous cheekbones. Dark eyes. You wouldn't think it, because of how the eyes on the mask light up, but under it he's got those classic broody, smoldering, movie-star dark eyes."

"Ugh!" Rocket jumps down from the display and stalks out of the room with the document exhibition. "Forget it."

"Haven't even gotten to his mouth!" exclaims Steven, trotting after him. The next room has all these displays of vintage clothing. It's quite nice. "I mean, it's a normal sort of mouth, but the ways he knows how to use it -- the first time I kissed his wife, I was absolutely pants at it, he's the one who showed me how to do it properly --"

"I said, forget it! I believe you, okay?"

"Oh, but I'm not done!" Steven's on a roll now, all right? "Don't you want to hear about the rest of him?"

"Nah, I'm good!"

"Because his body is amazing." (Their path takes them past a tall gilded mirror. Steven resolutely does not look at it.) "Some of these heroes, they got super-strength from a serum, or augments, or maybe they're just a normal bloke in a cool power suit. But Moon Knight? He gets it by exercise. And you can tell!"

The glass doors at the end of the room look out on open sky. Once they see it, Rocket straight-up bolts -- but he's got tiny little raccoon legs, so Steven isn't far behind.

"Biceps to die for!" calls Steven gleefully. "Strong enough to lift me off the ground with one arm. Abs you could grate cheese on! And don't even get me started on his--"

They burst out onto -- not the front steps, they're still a level off the ground, but onto a big flat open-air terrace. Most of it is currently taken up by a whole illegally-parked space shuttle, with the rest of Rocket's motley multi-species crew deep in conversation next to it.

"Quill!" wails Rocket, sprinting toward the human (or at least, the most human-looking one of the bunch). "This human is sexually harassing me!"

Peter Quill scoops him up from under the arms like a toddler, looks into Rocket's eyes, looks at Steven (now demurely paused on the threshold), then looks back at Rocket and says sternly, "What did you do?"

"Me?!" sputters the raccoon. "How could you say that? I'm innocent! Innocent, I tell ya!"

Quill turns to Steven...who gives them the friendly wave of an ordinary Earth tourist, confused but quite impressed to be standing this close to an interstellar superhero. "Just a bit of attempted blackmail! We got it all sorted, don't worry."

He leaves the rest of the team chastising Rocket (and, hopefully, checking for any non-alien artifacts that might've accidentally fallen in his pockets), and heads back into the building. This time, he stops in front of the mirror.

Both of the others are reflected back at him. Marc is staring, both hands clapped over his mouth and eyes like saucers, blushing so hard Steven can practically feel the heat radiating off the glass. And Jake--

Jake is on his knees, slapping his thighs, shoulders heaving and tears streaming down his face, absolutely dying with laughter. As Steven tunes back into the sound of them, he can hear the most incredible wheezing of uncontrollable mirth.

"Handled it all right, then, did I?" says Steven, feeling a shy grin break across his face.

"More than a little all right, buddy!" squeaks Marc. "Where did that even come from?"

"Excuse me, I think you'll find that every word of it was technically true."

A high keening note pierces the air, like a hysterical teakettle. With one intense full-body sway, Jake falls the rest of the way over. There is literal ROFLing going on, here.

"Well, I hope you're proud of yourself!" says Marc. "Are you seeing this? You broke Jake."

Chapter Text

It's been a long time since they just flat-out lost it after a mission.

But it's also been a long time since a mission went this bad -- victims are dead -- Moon Knight didn't kill them, but he sure as hell didn't save them, either.

Jake is the one who keeps the suit on and gets them out of there. It's not like "Marc sitting around with bullet wounds any longer than he has to" is going to make the holes in the non-bulletproof bodies go away. Also, not like their new non-amnesiac Steven is still going to be convincingly innocent when the cops show up.

Once they're out of danger on both counts, Jake drops them down a deserted side street, and then Marc takes over and screams and absolutely goes to town on -- whatever's in range, really.

They kick dents in the side of a dumpster. Punch the bricks until their knuckles are bloody, not to mention speckled with flecks of paint from some kind of towering graffiti mural. Stomp flat three beer cans and one whole abandoned traffic cone. Marc collapses against the wall and lets Steven cry for a bit, then Jake kicks Steven out when he starts hitting himself in the head, then Marc shovels Jake aside when he's on the verge of manifesting some crescent darts and going at a pipe or a lamppost or something.

When Marc sees the figure standing at the corner, gently lit up by a streetlamp and green-tinged by the traffic light, he has no idea how long she's been there.

"What're you looking at?" he demands.

"You seemed like you might need...help?" says the figure. A teenage girl -- god, she's even wearing a backpack. Long dark hair, hands raised in a gentle non-threatening way, nose that crinkles up while she thinks about what to say. "Do you have somewhere to go?"

"She thinks we're homeless," groans Jake. "Did neither of you idiotas shower today? Because it was not my turn."

"We've been screaming and kicking walls, mate, I don't think an extra shower is going to fix our image," says Steven miserably.

"Yeah, I've got somewhere to go," says Marc to the too-nice-for-her-own-good high-school student. "Just taking the scenic route."

"Uh-huh," says the girl. Behind her, the light changes, and a couple of cars whoosh by. "Do you remember how to get there? Or is there someone I can call for you?"

"Maybe we should call Layla for a pickup," sniffles Steven. "She's in the States, right?"

"Yeah, hermano, the state of Florida," snaps Jake.

"...Is that far?"

"Do you need somewhere to stay and wait for her?" asks the girl. "I can wait with you, if you want."

For a second Marc wonders how she's talking to the voices in his head -- then he hisses in frustration and leans on the wall, letting his head fall back against the brick. Not gently, either. "Oh, for gods' sake, we've been doing this out loud."

Jake nods their head forward again to glare at the girl. "Having fun gawking at the circus freak, chica?"

"N-no! Of course not."

"Then what gives?" demands Marc. "There's gotta be a million easier ways to earn your Service Learning Hours than approaching dangerous whackjobs in alleys."

"Hey!" says the girl. "You don't have to use that word."

Marc gets to his feet. "Why the hell not? We're obviously insane."

"Jodidamente locos," adds Jake, with a couple menacing steps forward. If this kid doesn't have a healthy self-preservation instinct, and he can scare her into one, then frankly he'll be doing her a favor.

"Stark raving bonkers," puts in Steven, as he gets pulled along for the ride. "Not to put too fine a point on it."

"A-and if you want to reclaim those terms for yourselves, I'm not going to stop you!" says the girl, in the most dramatic act of Missing The Point that Marc has seen in decades. "I mean you don't have to say you're dangerous! Statistically speaking, having a mental illness means you're more likely to get hurt by someone else than you are to hurt them."

That makes Steven stop short. "Gosh. You see that on a poster in your guidance counselor's office?"

"...Yes?"

"Bad news for you, chica," says Jake, stalking forward again. "We're the fuckin' outliers."

She's even smaller than they realized, Marc sees as they get close enough to loom over her, some high tone ringing in his ears. Jake's not going to hurt her, obviously, any more than Marc is, they're just summoning all their combined menace to get her to --

The girl reaches for them.

Except not, because her arms don't move. They stay exactly where they are, her hands and forearms just get bigger, wrapped in a crystal shell that stretches along with them and glitters in the night. It looks like that surface should be hard and unyielding as glass -- but it just feels firm, and kinda tingly, as the girl picks Marc up around the torso.

She only moves him backward a few yards before setting him down again. Gently. Like a patient human relocating an excited puppy away from a plate of bacon it's not supposed to eat.

The girl gives them a sheepish grin. "I'm, um, kind of an outlier too."

The high tone gets louder, and the girl winces as she looks in the direction it's coming from. It's not his ears ringing, Marc vaguely realizes. It's a distant wail of sirens.

"Look, I don't want to rush you," she says. "But I think maybe someone called those on you? Now, I do make shields, and they are bulletproof when I get them right -- but, uh, I don't always get stuff right. And I really-really-really don't want you to become a hashtag because I screwed up, okay? So. Can you please let me take you somewhere else?"

"You are absolutely not standing in front of cops for us, chispitas," snaps Jake. "We'll get our own crazy ass out of here."

"We're bulletproof all by ourself!" says Steven encouragingly. "Don't worry about us."

The kid looks...dubious. Big surprise there.

Marc sighs and summons the suit.

"Look, we're whackjob superhero representation," he says, as the mask and cowl close over his face. "Diversity win or whatever. Stay in school."

Chapter Text

When the lights, cameras, and every single electronic display at the convention center all switch off at once, Jake breaks into a wide grin and summons his armor.

Finally! Cooler and more comfortable than the fancy suit Marc made them go undercover in.

(Steven suggested they could wear a hoodie and pretend to be a Silicon Valley wunderkind, but none of them have the tech knowledge to back up that disguise. Jake doesn't even recognize half of la jerga técnica on the displays around here, and he's the Spanish-fluent one. So they put on a tux and went as a swanky VC financier.)

He climbs the side of the Pym Technologies booth and scans for bad guys. Easy to spot, because they're the ones who start pulling out night-vision goggles, even though they weren't presenting at the night-vision-goggle booth.

Jake doesn't need equipment at all. He has all the magic he needs to protect the travelers of the night. Which also works for the travelers of the power outage.

The first couple of minions go down from crescent darts, easy. Then they start activating fancy shields. Then there's a blinding flare of mini-jets as someone lifts off the ground--

Hang on, that one's not a minion.

Maldición, Jake didn't realize the ex-CEO of Stark Industries even appeared at lowly industry events anymore. Let alone that Pepper Potts walked around with a full suit of silver-and-purple nanotech armor in her frickin' handbag.

"They're here for something specific!" she yells to Jake, over the commotion of all the less-equipped people trying to bail. "Do you know what? Or who?"

The Avengers must have a file on him(/them) by now. Something that says he's basically reliable, not too crazy, takes the good guys' side in a fight. "Not a clue, lo siento!"

Potts fires an energy bolt in his direction -- which blazes past him, and zaps a guy who was about to tackle him from behind. "You see them putting special focus anywhere, let me know, okay?"

"Sí, señorita!"

It's not as effortless as fighting beside Layla -- it's not even like teaming up with the heroes they vaguely know who have combat training -- but the lady's got some moves, thinks fast, and clearly knows every trick her suit can do.

Jake doesn't have files, he's got Steven. Hey, he thinks, drop-kicking a guy past the big Roxxon display screens, she's single, right?

Jake! splutters Steven. You're married!

Marc's married. You're the hopeless-romantic side piece. My thing is being, at most, the sexy freewheeling never-gonna-be-tied-down amigo-con-derechos.

Pepper Potts's "thing" is being recently widowed, adds Marc disapprovingly, as Jake spots a suspicious knot of bad guys forming around the now-deserted AIM booth. Don't think she's gone back to dating yet.

It's always harder to hold a mental conversation during hand-to-hand, so Jake switches to talking out loud as he chucks the first attacker straight through a plasterboard display. "Who said I want a date? Maybe she's into sexy hookups."

She has a child! squeaks Steven.

"¿Y qué? With Papi Stark's money, she can afford a babysitter!"

Jake tips an entire jar of corporate-branded pens into the aisle, just in time for the guy charging him to slip and skid and hit the tiles face-first. Nice.

"Or -- do you think that means she wouldn't enjoy a sexy -- Ay, Marc! Does Steven not know how babies are made?"

It gets both of the headmates sputtering and speechless long enough for Jake to knock aside the person doing something nasty-looking to the wiring of AIM's prototype...thingamajig. He gets Potts' attention -- she comes over and plants her hand on the wiring, apparently letting the nanotech handle it -- cool, all Jake has to do is keep any more minions off her back.

The lights finally come back on, and security guards wearing the convention center's logo come stumbling in.

One of them points her gun at Jake -- which, fair, he did jump on another booth to get the high ground, so he's the only person they can see who's still moving. Also, the cool black armor is terrifying. "P-put your hands where we can see them and step away from the machine!" she yells in Spanish.

"We're fixing what these idiots tried to do!" snaps Jake, also in Spanish. "Or rather, the literal goddamn Avenger on your sales floor is fixing it. Let the lady work and we won't have a problem, got it?"

It takes some more yelling and bumbling and general confusion...but Potts takes her helmet down, and once enough of the guards have checked it's really her, things get calmer.

At last she steps back, and the nanotech suit melts away. Doesn't totally disappear, just contracts into a few discrete pieces, like tasteful cyberpunk jewelry.

"Amazing moves you've got there," says Jake from above. "So...you doing anything tonight?"

"What?" asks Potts, at the same time as Marc says, What?

"Do you have plans?" Jake jumps lightly to the ground, and, since Potts can't see his smile, does a slight bow. "Dinner? Walks in the moonlight? Visit some nice little places they don't tell los turistas about?"

(He may be playing up his accent a little right now. Lots of Anglos find it hot, okay?)

I thought you were kidding about asking her out! wails Steven.

She's old enough to be our mom, adds Marc, with unexpected venom.

Por Dios, Marc, the kid she's got is in elementary school, do not make this weird, thinks Jake -- then realizes the lady was talking too, and he missed it. "Sorry, what was that?"

Potts (who, sure, maybe has a few more lines on her face than Jake does, but can still absolutely get it) raises her eyebrows. "Distracted?" she asks, turning to walk back to the Stark Industries booth -- but pausing to see if Moon Knight follows.

Jake falls in step behind her. "Yeah. Sorry. Certain pendejos are giving me all kinds of grief for daring to notice that you are an absolute fox."

He shoves at Marc and Steven, hard, until they draw back out of reach. They might be secretly spying anyway -- he's lost the ability to block them off completely, and yeah, he does kinda miss being able to do that sometimes -- but at least they're not hanging over his shoulders anymore.

Jake waves a hand vaguely at the side of his hood, indicating where the ears are. "This is probably in my file or whatever, sí? There's a headset in the cowl--"

"How is it transmitting?" interrupts Potts. "Everything was jammed." She waves a hand vaguely at the chrome-plated tech bits still curved around her own ears. "Even this isn't getting a connection yet."

"Wakandan tech," says Jake. "Don't ask me how it works, I just wear the stuff--"

Potts cuts him off again. "There's a Wakandan booth two rows down. They're out too."

Jake stutters for a second -- she's giving him a searching look, which probably isn't doing her much good through his mask, but it's hard to be sure -- then sighs and deflects. "You're gonna laugh."

He must get just the right amount of vulnerability in it, because her face softens. "You remember I've been with the Avengers Initiative since Nick Fury first got it off the ground? I've seen files on metahumans with all kinds of powers. One time, I fought a purple alien over a set of world-ending jewelry, side-by-side with a flying mohawk space lady and a Valkyrie riding a winged horse she got off my middle-school lunch box. Whatever it is you're not saying...it will not be the silliest thing I've ever heard. I guarantee it."

"You are ruining me for all other women, señorita." Jake clasps his hands over his heart. (He's exaggerating. Mostly.) 

He still doesn't have an actual plan...until Steven pushes something into his mind. Oh. He was still secretly watching -- and lucky for Jake that he did.

"...It's ancient aliens," Jake says out loud. "I don't mean all Ancient Egyptian stuff, not las puras pendejadas thrown around by gringos who can't imagine brown people figuring out how to use pulleys and levers, but this thing? Yeah. Basically just this. And please don't ask if Stark Tech can see the blueprints, I'm not allowed to share -- no matter how bad I'd love to retire to a giant mansion with a deck and a pool and a ten-car garage."

Security people keep popping up in the aisles around them. All Potts has to do is give them a firm nod, and they back off -- whether they're in the convention center logo, the Stark Industries logo, or literally any other company. Cool trick.

"To make it up to you...can I take you out to dinner? If not, please let me down gently, ay?" Jake raps his knuckles against the chestplate. "I got a soft heart under here."

"I believe it," says Potts, and it doesn't even sound like she's putting him on. "Listen, Mr. Knight...you're a charmer. And I'm sure you'd be lovely company over dinner. But the 'spend all day on superheroics and then go out at night for shawarma' lifestyle was never exactly my speed."

"Gentle letdown, got it," says Jake. "It's fine, you're only breaking my heart over here. Happens all the time."

Potts smiles. Not in a mean or patronizing way, just -- knowing. Like she's in on a good joke, and waiting for Jake to catch on and laugh too.

"I can't say I'm not tempted," she admits. "But. In my experience...when someone spends a lot of time talking their way into short, hot, low-emotional-stakes hookups...and makes a point of doing it while they know there's another person watching...what they're really trying to do is tell that other person something."

Under the mask, Jake tries not to choke on a laugh.

"And I don't want to get in the middle of that. Okay? Absolutely nothing personal. It was great when you had my back out there -- it means a lot."

She grabs a pen (they weren't handing those out at the Stark booth, so this is a Pym Industries freebie from the next table over), then picks up a Stark brochure and scribbles something on the back.

"We can't help with secret alien tech," she says, "but every superhero I've ever met has non-super friends. So, if there's anyone you would vouch for, who needs some new human-made equipment? Give us a call. I'll see about having Stark Industries hook you up."

*

Jake is sipping a drink at a rooftop bar, the kind with no tourists, when Steven pokes back in.

I didn't stick around to hear her answer. Did you...get the date? Or not-date, whatever?

"Nah," he says out loud. "We're alone, you can come out."

Steven's consciousness settles in next to his, followed closely by Marc's, and Jake leans out of the body to let them take the measure of the place. Steven coos over the soft lamps and rattan furniture and plants on every table. Marc just scans for threats (re-clocking all the ones Jake already got, obviously).

Sorry, thinks Marc abruptly. About making it weird.

Wow, if Jake lingers on that for one second more than necessary, Marc is going to spontaneously combust from awkwardness. He shrugs. "Eh."

It's too bad, adds Steven wistfully, gazing out over the gathering midnight of the Madrid skyline. Gosh, this is just lovely...it would've been such a romantic place to take someone.

Nothing stopping either of them from taking Layla, the next time they're both here. Jake thinks about pointing that out. Then he thinks about how, right now, this place is just his, and maybe it's nice that nobody's proposing to take that away.

"Took my two favorite idiotas," he says instead. "How am I gonna do better than that?"

Steven mind-leans warmly against him. Which is nothing new, Steven is a cuddly puppy of a man...but then Marc does the same thing, and Marc is more of a grouchy stray cat who hisses if you so much as look at him too long. Another thing they're not gonna linger on, huh.

"Anyway -- don't feel too sorry for me, compañero." Jake pats the side of the fancy suit, so they can feel the paper in the inside pocket. "Still got her number."

Chapter Text

When Moon Knight realizes that the whole area is ringed with sorcerers -- a several-hundred-foot radius of the city is being blocked off, with the incongruous combination of magic shields and yellow CAUTION tape -- they dare to hope maybe somebody's caught their target already.

Marc leaps straight up to get a moon's-eye-view of the place, and...no such luck. That's definitely their guy in the center of the courtyard, standing in a shimmery purple dome with at least two unconscious bodies at his feet. He's holding a magic-looking artifact, and regaling them with what Marc assumes is a supervillain speech. (Can't be sure, since nobody in his head understands Nepali.)

He flies in a slow circle, looking for familiar faces...trying not to let Steven get distracted by cooing over the exquisitely-carved stone monuments and shrines, ancient architecture lovingly preserved in the middle of crowded apartment buildings and convenience stores and solar panels...

A couple of those sparkly orange-ringed portals open right outside the villain's shield, and out step three sorcerers.

No, wait, it's two sorcerers and the martial-arts prodigy from the werewolf bar. He's in a fancy outfit that matches theirs, with accessories -- ten big bracelets, five on each arm.

The sorcerers spin up more shields, Shang-Chi raises his arms, and there's a whole firework show of lightning crackles and energy blasts...

...all of which lasts until there's a dull WOMP from the center of the courtyard, and a new dome swells outward from the purple one. (Like a bubble filling with air, thinks Steven, at the same time as Marc thinks like the shockwave from a depth charge.)

It expands, thin and iridescent, until it pops when the surface is a few feet away from the line of CAUTION tape. Everyone standing within its range dropped like a stone the moment it passed over them.

Oof, thinks Jake. So much for Nice Moves.

We don't know he's dead! protests Steven, then lights up with hope when more portals open. Look, they're pulling him out! Can we see where they're taking him?

Marc scans the outside edge of the perimeter for orange sparkles, until he spots the right group of figures on the red-tiled street, pulling their downed fighters to safety. Another low-pitched WOMP rattles the air, but not before everybody's out of range.

Moon Knight touches down.

About eight different sorcerers start yelling at them -- not in any of the languages they would recognize -- all brandishing glowing weapons, and/or body parts.

One of the people crouching at Shang-Chi's side jumps to her feet. She's dressed all fancy too, but they recognize Katy as soon as she starts yelling. "Hey, hey, everybody cool it!" she orders in English. "This is Moon Knight, he's good people -- geez, didn't you know he was coming? Wong, did you not tell them?"

Wong -- which is apparently the name of the guy still crouching next to Shang-Chi (now groaning and holding his head, so, not dead after all!) -- looks from Katy to Moon Knight. "He's not one of the people I called."

"Ooh. Okay. Well, those of us you did call aren't doing such a hot job, so maybe it's a good thing he showed up." To Marc, Katy adds, "Uh -- you are here to help, right?"

"Depends." Marc jerks his head in the direction of the monologuing guy. "If I kill that guy, will it help?"

"We would prefer it not come to that," says Wong stiffly. "Destroy the urn he holds, and he will become powerless and harmless."

"But nobody's gotten anywhere close to destroying the urn," adds Katy, "and, full disclosure, one of our backup plans is to float something big and heavy over where he's standing and then drop it. So killing is not totally off the table." When Wong gives her a disapproving glare, she adds, "What? I'm not wrong."

"Smash the urn, fix the problem. Got it," says Marc. "Can you walk us through, real quick, why nobody's done it yet?"

The problem, it turns out, is...layered. The villain's permanent shield, a half-sphere with maybe a ten-foot radius, repels all their magic. Can't even open a portal inside it and send stuff through. You can open a portal outside, and from there a person can just walk through...but anyone who does that collapses, same as the people who had the expand-a-bubble pass over them. (That explains the bodies at the guy's feet.)

"At least," adds Katy grimly, "we hope it's the same thing. You know, fixable. We can see they're still breathing, though, so that's a good start."

"Felt like I was making progress for a moment there. I think I could've zapped my way through the shield eventually," says Shang-Chi, now graduated from "soaking up Wong's healing magic" to "holding an ice pack to his head." "But I'm talking about hours, and this guy recharges in minutes. Sorry."

I've got a funny feeling about this, puts in Steven. What exactly is happening when it knocks someone out?

Marc relays the question, to which Wong replies, with deathly seriousness, "Brain freeze."

(Katy and Shang-Chi both let out badly-repressed snorts. Wong rolls his eyes and mutters an exasperated "Americans!")

"What he's trying to say," adds Katy quickly, "is, it sorta puts your mind on pause. Not like permanent brain damage -- so far everyone's fine again once the sorcerers can get them restarted. But in between? No thoughts, head empty."

"And please," adds Wong, "no more 'helpful suggestions' about how we should simply send our biggest airhead to do the job! I keep telling people, Strange is off-planet this week."

Is this magic setup for real? thinks Jake.

Bloody hell, adds Steven, d'you think Khonshu sent us here because he was -- for the first time in his whole featherheaded life -- being strategic?

"Good news!" says Marc out loud. "Because of...complicated moon-power reasons that are way too mysterious to be explained...I am exactly the guy you need."

*

Marc drops from the sky directly above the square, cape flaring in a way he hopes is really impressive.

To the watching sorcerers, not to the target. He hopes the target keeps not even looking up.

Maybe the guy has magic proximity alarms set, or maybe he just noticed some sorcerers taking a suspicious interest in the clouds. His head tilts upward. The urn glows, and with another WOMP the soap-bubble effect is rushing up toward

*

"I regret all of my life choices!" wails Steven, as he plummets without a parachute toward a courtyard that is extremely historical, and also extremely paved in rock.

This was your great thinking, cariño! thinks Jake, grinning like a madman inside his head. The enemy's gate is down!

"Wasn't my idea! I got it out of a book! And the author turned out to be very problematic!" sobs Steven, as the purple dome gets closer and closer and

*

Jake slams to the ground in a perfect three-point hero stance, hard enough that it leaves a crater. Is that on-brand, or what? Steven and Marc better wake up in time to appreciate it.

The bad guy is wincing and looking away, from what he must expect to be a messy splatter of ex-Moon Knight. He mutters something in Nepali that probably approximates to "ick."

Jake grins, sweeps to his feet, and pounces. "¡Boo!"

The guy shrieks, the urn glows, but it's way, way too late for another WOMP to make any

*

When Marc comes to, he has the target in a grappling hold, they're surrounded by shattered pieces of urn, and the other bodies around them are groaning and starting to stir. Everybody back in here...?

Aquí, confirms Jake.

Breaking it must've un-paused us all, surmises Steven. Lucky, yeah? No need to worry what a sorcerer would find while poking around our head.

Speak of the devil, a fizzing orange portal swirls open in front of them. A wide-eyed Wong steps through, with Katy, Shang-Chi, and half a dozen extras on his heels. "How on Earth did you do that?"

"Magic," says Marc, surrendering the villain into the custody of the nice people with magic handcuffs. (If Khonshu decides that's not good enough, well, doing anything else about it can be Khonshu's problem.)

"Everyone here is magic!" sputters Wong. "And still, none of us had enough power to resist the urn's effects! This would make your resistance higher than mine, and I'm the Sorcerer Supreme!"

Everyone around him stares.

"--and I never pull rank like that!" adds Wong, looking as stunned as everyone else.

"It's true," says Katy, while Shang-Chi nods fervently. "He totally doesn't."

"Look, it's like I said before." Marc shrugs. "The moon is real frickin' mysterious, okay? Not sure what else to tell you."

Chapter Text

Steven ought to try and visit this city more often!

Gosh, it isn't even properly Mardi Gras yet, and there's still enough people on the streets in oddball costumes that his Moon Knight suit doesn't stand out. Even Khonshu, shadowing them from various roofs and balconies, would hardly earn a second look if anyone could see him.

And, well, maybe some of them can? Supposed to be a bit of a haven for people with extra spiritual senses, after all.

Remember not to drop the mask, thinks Marc for the third or fourth time. You sound different, you move different, it should be easy for them to accept you as a different guy as long as they don't see we have the same face.

"I'll remember," says Steven. "Promise."

And if you gotta switch, call either of us, adds Jake. We can figure out las excusas later.

Steven sighs. They won't have much downtime before they have to go handle the dealing-vengeance, punching-traffickers part of the evening, and he is trying to enjoy the atmosphere, here. "Bloody hell, guys, am I your headmate, or your teenage daughter about to go on a first date? If Barnes tries to get fresh with me, I know I'm allowed to tell him no means no, and call you to drive me home."

He's a little surprised when, instead of feeling duly chastised, Marc seems nervous. ...would you actually try to date that guy?

"No, Marc."

You sure? asks Jake. He does have dark broody eyes. And biceps to die for. Heard you were into that.

Steven groans. "Okay, first of all, unlike certain Casanovas I could name, I consider myself in a closed polyfidelitous relationship already, thank you." He can feel both Marc and Jake winding up a complaint about how half of those aren't real words, and barrels ahead without giving them the chance: "And second, I have the same name as his ex, that would be too weird."

That just shakes Marc up even more. Wha--Barnes and Rogers were not exes, where did you even get that?

"...they weren't?" asks Steven, genuinely surprised.

Come to think of it, he doesn't know where he got it. But then, he did spend a lot of years only seeing bits and pieces of people's lives, and having to fill in the rest on-the-fly based on his best guesses. Maybe he just filled this bit in wrong.

Not gonna say it's impossible, clarifies Jake. But it's not somethin' they ever admitted to the public, at least.

They met in the forties! thinks Marc anxiously.

Steven snorts, winding his way around a laughing group of pedestrians with the biggest and silliest hats he's ever seen. "What, and you think gay people weren't invented until the sixties?"

I didn't say that, I just...they were in the military, there used to be rules about...

Sure, compañero, interrupts Jake, nobody's ever secretly gay in the military.

He sounds smug again, but in a different way from before. Steven narrows his eyes under the mask. "Jake? What did you do?"

Had a good time when soldier-boy here was scared to. That a crime?

In the US military in the two-thousands? fires back Marc. Yes! Yes, it was!

Suddenly Khonshu is in front of them. "Cease this insipid prattling about foolish mortal concerns!" the god booms, while Steven stops so abruptly he nearly trips over himself. "You are being watched."

All right, everyone who wants me to have a shot at successfully soloing this mission, button it up, thinks Steven firmly. Out loud, he says, "Friend or foe?"

*

"Man, I'm telling you, he was probably just some guy in a white suit, it's a whole thing--"

"If he was just some guy, he wouldn't have been able to slip my tail," repeats Bucky. "And it sure looked like he was talking on a mic in his--"

"Evening, chaps," says a new voice. "Lovely night for a bit of crime-fighting, innit?"

Sam and Bucky had eyes on different directions, they're both pros at this, and they still managed to let the guy in the three-piece suit get onto the next rooftop unnoticed. He gives them a friendly wave, then has to use both arms for balance as he wobbles across the peaked roof towards them.

"We're actually waiting for someone," says Sam cautiously.

"Right! That's me. I mean, I'm him. I mean -- there's more than one fellow who goes by the name Moon Knight, and I'm the one you're meant to work with tonight."

Bucky narrows his eyes. "You're not the one we talked to."

"Well, no. He thought I should also get to meet you at some point. Said something about a 'play-date', which he seemed to think was quite witty -- that mean anything to you?"

Now Sam is the one narrowing eyes, and he's doing it at Bucky.

"Don't even start, you know what you did," says Bucky crisply. To Moon Knight Part Deux, he adds, "All right, let's see what you've got. You gonna stay in low-power mode the whole time, though?"

"It's not bloody low-power mode," snaps Moon Knight 2: Electric Boogaloo. Must be a sore spot, huh. "It's -- listen, the mummy suit with the crescent darts is the ceremonial outfit of the Priest of Khonshu, yeah? Other guy's specially attached to that one. I can switch it on if I have to..." He goes quiet for a second as the fancy white suit ripples around him into the caped-and-armored version they're used to, then flips neatly back. "...but I'd much rather stick with the modern version. After a few thousand years, eventually you've got to be able to update with the times, right?"

Well, geez, if there's anyone who can appreciate scrambling to keep up with the changing times, it's Bucky. "So...it's like Moon Knight Original Flavor is an Orthodox Priest of Khonshu, and you're a Reform Priest of Khonshu."

"Gosh," says MoonTwo Strikes Back. "That's really good, that is. Mind if I start using it?"

Chapter Text

Hell no, thinks Marc. No way. Not a chance. Don't anybody dare wake me up until he's gone. And Jake, if you even try to hit on this one, I am throwing us off a bridge.

Then he goes completely MIA, leaving Jake clinging to the top of a light-rail car...alongside a guy in black and red, who is quipping like it's his side hustle and kitted out with enough weapons that even Jake thinks it's excessive.

"Look, you can't do this alone, I think your guy's a mmmm...a person with powers from a source I may or may not be allowed to acknowledge," says Red. "I know you've got a whole death-wish thing going on..."

(In the back of Jake's head, Steven mutters, Sounds like he recognized Marc back, huh?)

"...and you're not actually gonna die because the writers won't let you. But I'm the one with the kickass healing factor, while you can still get beat up pretty bad. And the readers who really want to see that can still draw all the sexy AU fanart they want later, so--"

"I can heal," interrupts Jake.

"Huh? Since when?"

"When d'you think? Since I got the suit, sabelotodo."

"But that's a suit from the comics, not--" Red twists his head to look up (nothing there but empty night sky), then back at Jake. "Oh-em-gee, it's an MCU fic! Of course, you're the one who didn't get his own suit in season 1, so we're filling in the blanks with crossover lore! This is so exciting, you have no idea, I've been hot for Oscar Isaac since Star Wars."

Steven, help, I don't speak nerd, thinks Jake desperately. Out loud, he says, "¿Qué?"

"Ooh, baby, there's that sexy Latin accent," croons Red. "Sooo, hey, I'm Deadpool! You wouldn't know, Marvel got the rights back but I'm still not exactly official official MCU yet, not like..." He looks up again, and flat-out squeals. "...wow, everyone else in this fic?! I feel so special."

Steven's consciousness leans forward. He and Jake don't co-pilot as smoothly as he and Marc do, so it's awkward and clunky, but at least they're coordinated enough that Steven can hear everything clearly while Jake's suit stays on.

For all the good it does them. No bloody idea what he's on about, mate, sorry.

The train plunges into a tunnel; Jake and Deadpool both plaster themselves flat against the roof of the car. They're slowing down to pull into a station, with a huge clamor that echoes off the cement in all directions, but Deadpool yells loud enough to be heard anyway: "So, hey, if your guy doesn't come out here, what say we just kick through the windows and start shooting?"

"Do the words..." Jake realizes abruptly that he doesn't know the English for it, and pokes Steven for a quick translation. "...collateral damage mean anything to you?"

"Oh, geez, we'd be doing sad violence, not wacky comedy violence? Never mind."

The light rail slows to a stop. Jake waves for Deadpool to shut up, and they both lean over to watch the flow of travelers for their target. Of course, the angle also means everyone on the platform can see them, so half a dozen smartphones are raised and the cameras are flashing before the doors even open.

Jake wishes he could melt into the shadows and disappear, but he keeps his mind on the job.

Deadpool starts striking poses.

"Is it just you in this one?" he stage-whispers, while blowing a kiss at the crowd. "Not that you're not all that and a bag of chips all by yourself, but I'd love to say hi to the cute British one, you know?"

"Where the fuck are you getting your intel?" hisses Jake.

"I caved and got a Disney Plus subscription. Aren't media monopolies great?" He points up. "And the fic header says you all show up at some point."

Literally the only thing above them is the station skylight. "You see a lot of things that aren't there?"

The mask covers Deadpool's mouth, but Jake could swear he hears a grin. "Do I ever."

"Great." (The train doors close. Jake wonders if he's gonna be stuck with this guy to the end of the line.) "You start talking about anything we don't want gettin' around, we're telling everybody you hallucinated it, entendido?"

In his head, Steven squawks in protest, but Deadpool just shrugs. "Fair."

When the train gets moving again, thundering out of the tunnel and rising upward as the track elevates beneath it, he adds, "Whoa, is that the SkyBridge? Wait, this is Vancouver as Vancouver, not Vancouver in drag as New York?"

Hell if Jake knows what the bridge is called, but the view around them is suddenly framed by huge steel cables, fanning out from the towers like rays of the sun.

And there's no problem with that -- Marc was just being an asshole earlier, Marc is not even here now, while Steven is more cautious than both the others put together -- so Jake is absolutely fine about seeing that it's just cables between the tracks and the open river, no netting, no fences, nothing, why the fuck are there no fences??

It's not a pedestrian bridge, people aren't supposed to be walking here anyway, offers Steven. He has more, Jake can feel it, but the others don't find stuff like "bridge trivia" as soothing as he does. Jake, are you--

He doesn't get the rest out before Deadpool looks up again -- at the cables? -- then sits up straight and whoops, pumping both fists in the air. "Woohoo! Canada, baby!"

Jake tackles him without even thinking about it, flattening him against the roof again, crescent darts appearing in both hands -- not to use on this idiot, but to slice some real handholds in the too-fucking-smooth roof of this stupid fucking train. "Hey, pendejo, you stupid or crazy?"

"Little of both!" says Deadpool cheerily. "Oh, now this is hot. Unf."

...maybe Jake should use the darts on him after all.

He wasn't about to throw himself off, Jake, thinks Steven soothingly. He's just a moron. An extremely horny moron, apparently. Can I--

"Look...it's not in the pairing tags, but I'm gonna shoot my shot," adds Deadpool. "You wanna ditch the superhero beat for the night, find a nice comfy hotel room to throw me around in instead?"

Jake shuts down, hard.

His armor morphs into the dashing three-piece suit as Steven drops into the body, sits it up, and blurts, "You are not behaving appropriately for the genre that you're in!"

"So...not a mis-tagged PWP, then?"

"I don't know what that means!"

"Sorry!" Deadpool holds up both hands. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Lo siento. My bad. I do not know when to shut up, it's my tagline and my curse. Sorry."

The train is slowing down again. They're pulling up to another station, a big covered platform over the still-elevated track. Steven backs himself the rest of the way off of the other hero, before anyone can start snapping photos of them in a really compromising pose.

"I really do wanna help you get your target, okay?" adds Deadpool. "So just...tell me what you need, and I will keep my mouth shut and follow orders. And I don't even mean that as a sex thing. I swear."

Steven swallows. It's been a hot minute since he's tried to fight anyone without having either Marc's or Jake's combat experience on tap -- and for good reason. This guy might be annoying, but he's not secretly evil or Marc would've said something, and there's no denying that Moon Knight needs some backup just now.

"All right," he says. "Help me watch to see if he gets out at this stop. If you get an opening, would you tackle him, please?"

"Aye aye, boss."

"But remember, this is a crowded public place, yeah...? No swords as long as you're anywhere near the pedestrians...and absolutely do not take out that gun in your pocket."

Chapter Text

This one has to be a Marc mission. No switching, no exceptions. When Khonshu pressed that point, Steven and Jake got suspicious and demanded to know what kind of manipulation was going on here, until the pigeon finally came out with it: the ceremonial armor from Khonshu's temple is the only version that's "appropriate for the dress code."

The King of New Asgard is wearing a perfectly normal sharp black suit. Some of her staff are in jeans.

Marc, wrapped in head-to-toe bandages and plated armor, feels like an idiot.

Layla, in her gold bangles and scarlet drapings, pats his back in grim commiseration.

They sit through a quarter hour of petitioning about "resident aliens," which makes Steven cross until Marc reminds him that they're not just being rude about human immigrants: New Asgard has a bunch of non-Asgardian and non-terrestrial residents.

Then they sit through practically the same amount of time while the announcer introduces them. "Moon Knight, Fist of Khonshu, God of the Moon and the Night Sky, Embracer, Pathfinder, Defender, Protector of Those Who Travel by Night...and Scarlet Scarab, Voice of Taweret, Goddess of Mothers and Children, Lady of the Horizon, Mistress of Pure Water, Weigher Pro Tem of Hearts and Guider Pro Tem of Souls! Approach the throne."

King Valkyrie might not have been raised to rule, but she's clearly picked up a thing or two about diplomacy: her outfit morphs from Earthly black-tie to a more, well, godly black-and-silver armor getup. "Pleasure to meet you. What can I help you with?"

"Your Majesty," says Layla (who agreed to do most of the talking, because she is a magical angel of perfection and mercy), "our patrons would like to extend their condolences for the attack on your divine kingdom, and send their sincere regrets for not learning about it in time to offer their help. We offer you this token of their apology."

She nods to Marc.

He hands over the gift basket.

It has flowers. Fruits. Cookies (on sticks). Some little decorative soaps (wrapped and labeled so they won't be mistaken for more cookies). A very nice apology card.

Taweret possessed Layla's body to hand-write a message inside it. Steven put his foot down that possessing their body was a privilege, not a right, and transcribed from Khonshu's sullen dictation instead.

Steven also drew the cartoon hippo on the front, next to the sad cartoon bird already printed there, and added an extra tail on the speech bubble saying "I'm Sorry!"

Marc had been low-key terrified the whole thing would be cheesy enough to start an inter-pantheon feud. To his relief, the King looks genuinely gratified as she pokes through the offerings. Smiles at the card. Pops a date into her mouth, chews appraisingly, then nods. "Oh, wow, this is nice. Really nice." 

She passes the whole thing to another attendant -- who, based on the head, is either a resident alien from a wolf planet, or the Earth's tamest werewolf -- then stands to shake Marc's and Layla's hands. "New Asgard accepts the gift, and the kind condolences, from...your pantheon."

"Not the whole pantheon," says Layla. "Just Taweret and Khonshu."

Marc sighs. "...and you have no idea who they are, do you."

Valkyrie grimaces. "Not a clue, sorry," she admits. "Odin was King of Asgard for thousands of your years, I haven't even been doing it for a decade...that's a lot of meeting minutes I haven't had time to catch up on, all right?"

Layla nods sympathetically. After a moment, Marc does too.

"All that said...yours are the only other Midgardian deities who've reached out at all after the God-Slayer thing, so I'd certainly like to know them. Any chance I've met them under another name?"

Steven instantly perks up. Oh, no, the man has a whole list ready to go, doesn't he.

Layla plays it a little cooler: "Pretty high chance, yes. Humanity has been naming and re-naming them for a few thousand years ourselves. Ask your people to get you some references for Egyptian mythology."

"Can do." Valkyrie doesn't even look at her staff, just makes a gesture, with absolute confidence that her orders will be handled. 

"Their group is called the Ennead," offers Marc, on a prompt from Steven. "Does that ring a bell?"

"No, sorry."

Steven whispers another word into his ear, and Marc says, "What about the Overvoid?"

Every person in the frickin' room gets tense. Even Layla, though in her case it's because, as she hisses under her breath, "Was I supposed to know what that means?"

King Valkyrie is standing straighter, scrutinizing them twice as closely. "Wait, these are Overvoid gods?"

"...That's not part of our official message!" stammers Marc. A frantic Steven pushes the memory at him -- it's a scene Marc was there for, Khonshu shouted the word through him, it was just such an offhand mention (and he was so distracted) that he hadn't remembered it at all. "I just heard Khonshu use the word one time. I might not even be pronouncing it right, I swear."

"At ease, human Avatars. You're not doing anything wrong. You're -- gosh, you probably aren't even a hundred yet, right? This goes back long before your time." Valkyrie pauses to fix some of her attendants with stern looks. "Everybody heard that? The humans have done nothing wrong, and nobody is going to treat them like they have."

People relax. Sort of. Marc doesn't hold it against them -- he can't manage a whole lot of relaxing now either.

"It is...surprising, having anyone from the Overvoid sending Asgard a gift basket," adds the King. "I mean, wow, right? We really are in a new age of the universe, here. But it's the good kind of surprise, and I for one am ready to accept it."

"Bury the hatchet," suggests Layla.

"...what? No, that sounds like a waste of a perfectly good hatchet. I mean that I'm ready to leave the past behind, and meet friendship with friendship."

So saying, she opens her arms for a hug.

Layla accepts it first, while Marc is on a knife's edge waiting to see if this is a ploy for Valkyrie to, oh, crush them to death with her amazing forearms or something. It seems to go okay, so when the King moves to him next, he reluctantly accepts.

Valkyrie rises up on her toes so her mouth is next to his ear, and murmurs, "Just so we're clear: I know you're listening, I can feel you whispering to the human, and if you are trying to Start Something using these sweet good-natured creatures as unwitting pawns, the full might of New Asgard will make you regret it."

She doesn't seem in any hurry to loosen her grip, until Steven, still inside their head, squeaks Y-yes, ma'am!

Valkyrie steps back, smiles, and pats Marc on the cheek. "Good god."

*

Layla gathers her hair up under a nice discreet baseball cap, Steven gets directions on his phone to the tourist spots he wanted to see, and Jake gloats, "I can't wait to see the look on the old bird's face when he finds out the hot battle-goddess-turned-king thought Steven was him."

"He doesn't have a face," protests Steven. "Not one that gets looks, anyway."

The harbor streets aren't crowded, and they don't want to leave Layla out, so they're all talking out loud just now. It's nice.

"Doesn't mean it won't be fun to see," scoffs Jake, then switches gears. "Por Dios, did you see that woman's confidence? The way her own people hop to obey her, not because she could break them in half, but because they like her? Also, the way she definitely could break them in half?...Is she seeing anyone?"

Layla snorts, rubbing her thumb over the back of their shared hand. "Jake, your self-esteem is admirable, but she is out of your league. And I mean light-years out of your league."

"Can we just agree," says Marc, with all the terse politeness he can force out through gritted teeth, "that none of us hit on gods while we're the priests of another god? Can we all please recognize that would be a good rule to follow?"

"And besides, Valkyrie's..." Steven pauses. "I mean, I don't know how well Earth human concepts of gender and sexuality can reasonably be applied to extraterrestrial deities, but. She's only dated women for a while now."

Marc grimaces. "Steven, if this is you filling things in with assumptions again...just because a woman looks amazingly suave and debonair in a tux, that doesn't necessarily mean..."

Layla cuts him off: "Marc, habibi, this has literally been in the news."

"...Oh."

Chapter Text

Steven has two books and one set of blueprints spread across the table, seven tabs open on the library computer's big shiny monitor, and he's filled a whole page of his notebook with scribbles. He's pretty sure none of it is helping.

"Look, I'm an Egyptologist, not an engineer," he protests under his breath. "There's got to be someone we can call for this..."

Ahh, you're brilliant, protests Marc, his consciousness draped over Steven's like a cozy weighted blanket.

(They had a bit of a heart-to-heart after New Asgard, and ever since, Marc has been experimenting with Actually Showing Affection. It's nice! Only, the misplaced confidence is a bit inconvenient just now.)

Although, hey, we can always revisit my proposal of just smashing stuff at random until we get in....

Nah, there's a way to make it work. I got a feel for it, protests Jake. He's not mind-cuddling, just hovering over their mental shoulders. Steven, go back to the circuit diagram again.

"Feel free to swap in any time," mutters Steven, flipping past several bookmarks in the larger tome until he finds the page Jake wants.

Can't, I'd stick out like a sore thumb in a library. You're the one who's inconspicuous here.

Right as Jake is saying it, the hair on the back of Steven's neck prickles. He looks to the next desk over...and sure enough, there's two student-age kids making a really bad attempt to keep a surreptitious eye on him. They both whip their heads around and fake-study their own devices (higher-tech than the standard library computers, one has a full-on holo-display) as soon as Steven catches their eyes.

Oof. Well, at least Steven is getting good at this explanation. "Sorry," he says sheepishly. "Talk to myself sometimes. Helps me think. Didn't mean to bother you."

"No, no, it's fine, you're not bothering us!" says one of the kids. A big guy with short dark hair, Steven is guessing he's Hawaiian or Filipino -- and definitely a student, he's in an MIT hoodie.

"Actually, we were thinking -- maybe we can help you?" offers the other. She's lanky and casual, with a leather jacket and a big mass of frizzy hair. "I swear we weren't trying to be nosy, Ned just gets real excited when he hears people mumbling about stuff in his field."

"Hey, I get a normal amount of excited, thanks," protests Ned. "Uh, and this is MJ, by the way."

"Steven," says Steven -- stopping himself there, because he has learned a bit of discretion since the whole Harrow affair. "And, yes, please? I could really use a set of fresh eyes on this."

In his head, Jake and Marc are both pretty tense as MJ and Ned descend on their workspace...but relax when the kids start talking. They pick up the whole problem in about a minute, asking Steven questions he mostly can't answer, bouncing ideas off each other that he can barely follow. Ned logs the computer into a proprietary database with his student credentials, and opens half a dozen new tabs. MJ takes off and returns with three new books, already flipping through the top one as she winds her way between the tables.

It can't be more than twenty minutes before they have a fix. And they've distilled it into directions that Steven kinda-sorta understands, and Jake is confident he'll be able to follow.

As Steven is gushing his thanks, the kids huddle in close, and MJ says quietly, "So, listen -- you don't have to tell us, but I promise, we can keep a secret -- who is this for?"

"What?"

"It's superhero research," says Ned. "Right? There's a hero who needs to get through one of these systems unnoticed, and they can't figure it out in the field, so they called you to look it up. You're the guy in the chair." He lets out a wistful sigh. "I always wanted to be the guy in the chair."

"Although if you're the guy in the chair for a villain, don't tell us," adds MJ, with crisp practicality. "We'll need the plausible deniability, here."

"N-no. Not a villain." Steven pokes his headmates for permission, gets a cautious sense of eh, probably can't hurt from both of them, then leans forward -- the kids pull even closer -- and whispers, "It's for Moon Knight."

The smiles freeze blankly on both faces.

Steven sighs. "You've got no idea who that is, do you."

"Wh-what? Sure we do!" squeaks Ned, completely unconvincing. "Moon Knight, that's..."

MJ jumps in to help: "...that's the one with...uh, the moon thing, obviously, and..."

It's fine! Steven is not offended. Even the Avengers had no idea who Moon Knight was before Cairo, and they have people whose job is to track all of Earth's heroes. Can't expect more out of a couple of college students, who've probably never even met one. "Remember the time the sky spun back a couple thousand years?"

"Are you kidding," says MJ, "my roommate's an astronomy major, she couldn't talk about anything else for...wait, are you saying that was Moon Knight?"

So now Jake is hissing in frustration, and Marc is making shushing noises, which Steven thinks is just a bit unfair -- turning back the sky was his thing, he should get to decide who he tells -- but, all right. "I'm not saying anythin' more. Plausible deniability, yeah?"

Ned grins and offers him a fistbump, which Steven gamely accepts. (MJ settles for flashing him a thumbs-up.) "So cool. And you can pass that on to...him? Her? Sorry, did you say what Moon Knight's pronouns are?"

"Uh," says Steven. "Him or them, I suppose."

Which was meant to be a clever addition to the whole "there are several different Moon Knights, don't think too hard about how you never see them in the same place at the same time" story they're putting around.

Instead, as Steven is heading out with his armload of notes, he overhears the kids gushing behind him: "Finally, some nonbinary superhero representation!"

What's that mean? asks Jake suspiciously. (He does understand this sort of identity stuff, at least as well as Steven does...he just tends not to know the English words for it.) Because it sounded like "not bi", and if it's that, I got some news for them.

Steven sighs. "It means, if Layla slips up and calls us 'they' in public, now we know what our cover story for that is."

Chapter Text

Starting to think we should've asked for backup on this one! says Steven.

"You know Layla had a thing!" hisses Marc, boots pounding the pavement, pedestrians scattering around them. The jackal might be invisible to most of them, but it's wreaking enough havoc that the crowd knows to get out of the way. "And we can't call Barnes and Wilson every week -- especially not all the way to South Africa -- we're gonna start looking needy."

We have Señor Supreme's number now, Jake reminds him. Boss of magic-users all around the world, remember? Or we could've called New Asgard, invited 'em to cement our new god-on-god alliance. Or the lovely Señora Potts! Bet she coulda hooked us up with some Avengers in the area.

"We're doing fine -- without anyone," pants Marc. "Got the portal closed -- all by ourselves, remember? -- now it's just a matter of -- killing jackal monsters! We're, like -- world champion at killing jackal monsters."

Right, but there's a lot of them, protests Steven, and only one of us! ...don't even start, you know what I mean.

Marc wasn't starting anything. He knows they only have enough body to take out one monster at a time. Which is why he needs his headmates to shut up and let him focus on catching up with this one, okay? He's already nailed it with three crescent darts in the back -- that's gotta start slowing it down any second now.

Preferably before it can sink its teeth into the dumb fluffy-haired white tourist who's just standing in the middle of the otherwise-emptied street...

...oh. The white guy unclipped some metal gizmo from his arm, and now he's turning green.

Good news, there's an Avenger here already.

The unlucky jackal sinks its teeth in the Hulk's bulging green arm. Which doesn't seem to hurt the Hulk at all, just tips him off about where to grab so he can pull the creature off, and shake it around in one meaty hand.

"Invisible monsters!" yells Marc, before turning to fling a new round of crescent darts at the jackal who was chasing him.

"HULK NOTICED," bellows the Hulk. Not the Professor Hulk who's always giving physics lectures and autographing photos -- this is the original flavor, whose hero career started in the Battle of New York all those years ago. "MOON MAN CAN SEE THEM?"

"Yes! Help me destroy them, please?"

"HULK WILL HELP," says the Hulk, and Marc hears a dramatic wet thumping behind him.

A moment later, the big green hands are free to grab the second jackal. It takes a chunk of the Moon Knight cape away in its jaws, but the fabric is already regenerating by the time the Hulk pulverizes this one too.

"There's more!" pants Marc. "They went down the next street -- last I saw--"

"MOON MAN POINT, HULK WILL SMASH."

Ay, I like el verdezote, thinks Jake. Can we get his number too?

Their ad-hoc system works well. Really well. Marc jumps on a few rooftops to nail down where the targets are; the Hulk charges down streets and around corners at incredible speed, and has no trouble catching up.

Okay, he also leaves dents in a few cars, and kicks over a tree or two. Well, maybe three. But if it keeps the people safe? Marc is good with that.

The people, for their part, have all gotten out of the way by now. They've vanished into stores and metro stations and parking garages. Bonus: it turns out most of the stores around here have sturdy bars they can pull over the doors and windows. Marc keeps seeing jackals trying to tear through them, and failing miserably.

In what seems like no time at all, they're out of monsters completely.

Marc circles the area one last time, double-checking with the supernatural sensitivity that Steven has a cool ancient Egyptian name for, and Jake has started calling his "mooney sense."

He also gets a closer look at the damage, and does a lot of wincing.

The bodies of the jackals crumble into dust once defeated, and the rest of the damage isn't as bad as Cairo, but. Boots on the ground again, he can see how Hulk's protective rampage burst a pile of trash bags here...bent a street lamp in half there...upset the apple cart (literally, there were vendors selling fresh produce out of carts) here...

A flattened sprawl of canvas and metal catches Marc's eye --

-- and he sways on his feet, vision blurring.

Steven catches him, takes over the body, looks more closely where Marc can't bear to.

"It's all right, Marc. It's all right. There was nobody in there," he says, gently pulling Marc's attention to the pavement around the smashed-up baby carrier. "No blood or nothin', see? Someone took the baby away before we even got here. Right -- look."

He points to the hastily-barred door of a grocery (the English-language signs give it the nice straightforward name of Discount Foods).

There's a binky dropped on the sidewalk in front of it. Been in a mouth recently-enough that it's still wet.

"Child's probably a bit cross, losing that on the way in, but nothing worse," says Steven. "We kept it safe."

You promise? asks Marc, sounding very small. You absolutely promise?

"Hand to heart, I swear."

The ground shakes as the Hulk stomps up behind them. "WHERE IS MOON MAN?"

Oh, no, we're confusing him, thinks Marc. I have to...I...

He's not going to make it. Doesn't matter how urgently they need to pull off Not Confusing The Biggest And Greenest Avenger, he's just not ready to switch back.

Steven turns to give the Hulk a cautious wave. "Hello, Mister Hulk! Sorry. I'm right here. Different outfit, that's all. We got all the monsters -- thank you."

"HULK'S PLEASURE," bellows the Hulk. "LITTLE WHITE MAN IS ALSO MOON MAN?"

(Inside their head, all of Jake's hackles go up. You know he meant the suit, thinks Steven soothingly, you don't have to scold him about our ethnic background.)

"Sort of," he says out loud.

Should he volunteer any details? They usually get the best results from explaining as little as possible, and letting other people assume whatever makes the most sense to them...but this is the version of the Hulk without any of Banner mixed in, and Steven's honestly not sure what the Hulk's mental capacity is for "assuming"...

"LIKE HOW LITTLE SCIENCE MAN IS SORT OF HULK?"

"...um," says Steven, totally gobsmacked, and also wondering why he hasn't just been saying that this whole time. "Yeah. Kind of exactly like that."

"WHITE MAN COMES OUT WHEN MOON MAN IS ANGRY? OR OTHER WAY AROUND?"

Say we do it on purpose, thinks Marc desperately.

As if Steven would just start listing off their triggers where anyone could hear. "Neither," he tells the Hulk. "We, uh, we've gotten pretty good at communicating with each other. So we decide together when to switch places."

The big guy turns this over in his head a few times, heavy brows getting even heavier as they furrow over his eyes.

All of a sudden they go smooth. His whole face is softening -- not just that he's relaxing, his features full-on shapeshift into thinner and lighter versions. The shaggy black hair turns into greying curls; the jawline rounds out with a bit of padding, and grows a salt-and-pepper five-o'clock shadow. He doesn't shrink all the way back to normal-human form, he stays big and green, but it's not the same intense green it was a minute ago.

"Whoo! Sorry about that, been a while since I took off the device that stabilizes my form, guess I needed some time to adjust," he says sheepishly. "Hey, you're Moon Knight, right? I've seen the Avengers file on you. Great to finally meet you."

Steven beams so hard, he's pretty sure the suit starts glowing. (Marc and Jake both crowd in behind him, surprised and intrigued by the recognition.) "That's me! And of course you don't need any introduction. It's an honor, sir."

Banner waves it away, looking awkward enough that Steven restrains himself from a much longer stream of gushing about all the ways he's helped save the city/country/planet/universe. "So, listen, I only caught the tail end of what you were telling the big guy, but...would you have any interest in getting mentored through the next step?"

"The next step of...what?" He can't mean joining the Avengers, surely?

"Of working through your personal issues!" says Banner, brimming with enthusiasm, grinning in a way that isn't quite big enough for his face right now. "Really digging through it, so you can finally integrate the separate aspects of yourself into a single, complete, well-adjusted whole! I spent years working on that balance -- you wouldn't believe how fulfilling it is. Always wanted to find someone else who needs those lessons, so I could help pass them on."

Oh. That's why they haven't been saying "we're kind of like the Hulk" this whole time.

"Uh -- gosh, Dr. Banner, it's really generous of you to offer," stammers Steven. "But I think your, um, other guy got the wrong idea? There are a few different Moon Knights, but each of us is a complete, whole person already. We just have shapeshifting suits."

"Oooh!" Banner's big green face falls, but he shakes it off pretty quickly. "Right, yeah, that's totally cool. I'm happy for you! Sorry about the big guy -- he's always misunderstanding stuff like that."

"Absolutely no offense taken," Steven assures him. "We're used to being misunderstood."

*

Much later, waiting underground for the local metro, Jake grumbles, Okay, so maybe we don't need Profesor Verdezote's number.

"He was just trying to offer something that worked for him," mutters Marc, now back in the body and talking into his powered-down Stark Industries earpiece. "Not his fault it's not going to work for us."

I'm not sure it's working for him as well as he thinks, muses Steven. The big guy's still around. And had a lot clearer read on our situation than Banner picked up on.

Marc grimaces. "Wasn't that clear. You had to correct him too, remember?"

The others both go real quiet.

Marc finds the nearest reflective surface (a shiny metallic support pillar) and glares at it. "All right, what do you think I'm missing?"

Well, we gave him a cover story too, didn't we? says Steven. Might not be about anger in our case, but...we come out when you feel guilty.

"Oh, c'mon," complains Marc. "I know sometimes that makes us switch by accident -- but it's not like you're locked inside until a trigger comes up! Not anymore, I mean. We can switch at will, any time we want."

That's our secret, hermano! exclaims Jake. You're always guilty.

Chapter Text

"Gosh, this is all so pretty!" gushes Steven, turning in place, trying to drink in every facet of the elaborate hotel corridor at once. "Look at those hanging lamps, Layla! The halls in the Duat had a set just like them -- swayed back and forth, too, which made a lot more sense once we figured out we were on a boat. Oh, and those arches! Didn't think they had carved pillars like that in America."

"And you haven't even gotten to the view yet," laughs Layla, strolling over to the stone railing. The pillars on either side of her frame a glittering slice of the Vegas landscape, two or three more of the towering hotels visible from the one they're in.

"Oh, yeah, the view is amazing," sighs Steven, joining her.

They're both in costume. Turns out Las Vegas is one of those cities where you can walk around in full Avatar-of-the-Ennead gear, and nobody bats an eye, they assume you're going to a show. Or maybe starring in one.

It would draw a little more attention if the outfit started rapid-fire changing, so Marc and Jake hang back, keeping their own remarks in Steven's head only. Like Jake's contribution now: Woulda been a whole lot smoother if you were lookin' at her when you said that.

"Ooh." Steven nudges his elbow against Layla's on the railing. "Would you mind pretending I was looking at you when I said that just now?"

Layla grins, and full-on loops her arm through his. "Whoever's feeding you lines, you can let him know I don't need them. Not from you."

Steven beams.

He really wants to kiss her...but that would mean disappearing the mask, with other hotel guests walking past, and this is (as Marc reminded him about fifty times) such a tourist town that everyone and their dog has a camera. Instead he settles for nuzzling her hair a bit, then lacing their fingers together.

"I was a little surprised you went for this place," adds Layla, watching the people in the courtyard below. "If we were going to go for one of the pricey ones, I thought for sure you'd pick the Luxor."

"Already been to real Egypt. Inside the real Great Pyramid, even!" protests Steven. "What do I want with the sparkly plastic theme-park version, after that? Besides...wouldn't you find it a bit, you know...culturally offensive?"

"Psh. Europeans looting our tombs, selling the artifacts, and keeping the profits, that's offensive. Westerners writing books of nonsense they made up and selling it as authentically Egyptian is offensive." Layla wraps her other hand around the back of Steven's, and it occurs to Steven that he can safely dismiss the gloves, so they're touching skin-to-skin. "A pyramid-shaped casino decorated with palm trees and plastic pharaoh statues? That's just some silly fun. You aren't personally offended by the Excalibur, are you?"

"Suppose not," admits Steven.

Would it matter if you were? puts in Jake. Not like you're really British.

Oi, back off, snaps Steven inside his head. How would you like it if I started saying you weren't really Cuban?

Jake splutters. The hell? Marc! Did we forget to tell Steven he's Cuban?!

"Wait, what?"

Steven, babe, the body's Cuban. At least half, anyway, says Marc helpfully. Apparently that was our job, collectively, to tell you, even though someone has all the memories of our Cuban grandparents and it's not me.

"Everything all right?" asks Layla. Her thumb rubs soft circles on the back of Steven's hand.

"Bit of a family history squabble going on all of a sudden," says Steven sheepishly. "Nothing serious. Sort of adorable, really."

"How'd that come up? You're not descended from King Arthur, are you?"

"No, there were a few steps in between--"

A performatively-loud throat-clearing from behind cuts him off.

Steven and Layla turn, startled. There's Barnes and Wilson, waiting a polite distance behind them, still in plainclothes -- mostly. Barnes has his gloves off, so his vibranium hand glints in the light as he waves hello. Wilson has the famous shield holstered on his back.

"Hey, gentlemen," says Layla, unwinding her arm from Steven's with a lot more grace than he could've pulled off. (Marc and Jake are both anxiously reviewing which parts of the conversation were out loud.) "Sorry, we didn't keep you waiting long, did we?"

"Nah, we just got here," says Wilson. Nice and casual, like there's no subtext about eavesdropping at all. "Sorry, are we working with you again tonight? Not complaining, I just thought we'd be getting the other guy."

So much for the hope that they didn't overhear Steven's accent, and he can pretend he was just Marc in "low-power mode" the whole time.

"Oh, you are!" he says, before Marc can offer to surrender the whole mission to him. (Marc was looking forward to working with Barnes again. The list of "things Marc anticipates with happiness instead of dread" is far too short for Steven to sabotage any of them.) "I just tagged along for a bit. Never seen Vegas, thought it sounded pretty exciting, you know? Orthodox Moon Knight is still the one who's taking the actual fight."

"Listen, as long as you're here, you're welcome to join us," says Barnes. "The more the merrier, right?"

"Ooh. Wish I could," says Steven, without missing a beat. For once, this is a cover story they've practiced. "It sounds fun, honestly, but Khonshu has a thing. Other guy has to stay on it until I show up to relieve him, and then I've got to stay on it. I'll just go swap with him now, send him your way, won't be a minute."

Barnes nods. "Makes sense. Mind if I come along?"

...Steven does not have a planned response for that one.

"Or I could," offers Wilson. "If it takes any flying to get there."

Layla to the rescue: "I'm not sure that's a good idea. Khonshu can get a little...touchy, about other people getting into his things without permission."

"Ah. That kind of boss," says Barnes knowingly.

Wilson doesn't let up: "Any chance you could ask him? For permission, I mean."

"You know what, that's a good idea," says Steven. "At least -- it can't hurt, right? Khonshu? Are you with us?"

You want one of us to improvise the old bird's role? asks Jake inside his head. Give you something to play off of?

Before Steven can decide on an answer...the god himself appears.

A few steps behind Barnes and Wilson. Towering over them. Just the right height, in fact, that he manifests with one of the hanging lamps right inside his skull, light spilling out of the eye sockets.

The non-Avatars in the corridor can't see him -- but they can see how both Steven and Layla jump at the same time, gazes fixing on the same spot of apparently-empty air.

"You seek my help, worm?" intones Khonshu, staff clicking on the floor tiles.

Steven grits his teeth and lets the "worm" slide. "I do. Don't know if you've been listenin', but this gentleman here, the new Captain America, wants to come along with me when I fetch...your favorite Moon Knight...from that thing you've got him doin'."

"You wish me to disapprove, so you can use my objection as an excuse to leave him behind."

"Would really appreciate it, yeah."

"One might argue that you have brought this on yourselves," rumbles Khonshu. "Why should I rescue you from your own lack of discretion?"

"Oh, don't even start!" exclaims Steven. 

As if Señor Caused-an-eclipse-just-to-get-attention has any room to talk, agrees Jake.

Khonshu swings his staff in a wide arc, pointing the crescent tip in Steven's face, close enough that Steven flinches back. "You used to hide your...condition...better. Now you flirt with revealing it to the world -- and yet you are unprepared for the consequences."

"This is not about the world. This is about specific people. And building mutual trust is a process, not a switch you can just flip and be done with it." Steven clenches his hands into fists. (The gloves are back on.) "Look, we fly all around the planet on your say-so, Fist-ing right and left on your behalf, and how often do any of us call in a favor in return, hm? I hardly think this is too much to ask!"

Khonshu growls, low in his...well, in the empty space he has instead of a throat, presumably.

Then, out of nowhere, an earthshaking burst of wind slams into the hotel. The hanging lamps veer so wildly they just about crash into the ceiling. Barnes and Wilson are both weighed down by enough metal to resist it, and Layla grabs the stone railing just in time -- but Steven outright falls over, and the sudden uproar of laughing and/or screeching from the walkway below suggests he's not the only one.

"I take it that was a 'no'?" asks Wilson once the gale dies down, offering Steven a hand up.

"Afraid so." Steven feels shaky enough that it takes him a second to remember that's the answer he wanted, actually. "Sorry about that. He's not always this moody, but, well...I think he got a bit ticked off when you two both snickered about 'fisting'."

*

"So, hey, we ran into Reform Moon Knight when we first got here," says Bucky, slamming his fist into a pony-sized robot. (Yes, the bad guy has an army of robots. Yes, Sam is being unbearably smug about it.)

"He's never been to Vegas," says Orthodox Moon Knight, disabling another bot with a volley of crescent darts to the hydraulics. It skids across the fancy Vegas paving stones in a shower of sparks. "Got pretty excited about it."

"Yeah, they said." Bucky grabs two smaller bots and smashes them together. "Looked like he and your wife were...pretty friendly?"

"They are," agrees Moon Knight. "Pretty friendly."

Both of them duck as the shield comes zipping by, clanging off a lamppost and a birdbath-sized decorative fountain before flying back to Sam's hand. (He and Scarlet Scarab are both doing air support. Bucky's only bringing this up because the Scarab's at a good distance, and because he's 95% sure she doesn't have super-hearing.)

"Look, I don't want to get in the middle of anything." The top tier of the fountain is on the verge of toppling over; Bucky catches it and hefts the stone back into place. "But we're...work friends, right? So. Whatever's going on -- I've got your back. Just wanted you to know that."

"Don't need it."

"All right."

"Look, I'm not...trying to be an asshole about this," says Moon Knight awkwardly. "You're being a...work friend. I get it. I appreciate it."

"Yeah? That's good."

"What I'm saying is...I don't need help because things are good, okay? Nobody's getting cheated on. Nothing's happening behind anybody's back. You follow me?"

"Ohhh," says Bucky.

One of the bots rearranges its limbs, clicking open something that looks like a modified gun barrel. Moon Knight leaps between it and Bucky, cape flaring out in that crescent-y way it does, and Bucky ducks into a crouch just as the bullets start flying.

"You know, setups like that happened back in my day too," he points out, as Moon Knight leans over him and holds up the cape, shielding both of them in the shadows. "In all kinds of, uh, combinations. Just wasn't considered...polite to talk about, I guess. Is that still true? I can't always keep up."

"Nah, that's about right," says Moon Knight. "Don't go spreading it around, please? You and Wilson are cool, but there's a lot of not-cool people out there. And superhero gossip is...well, you already know how it is."

Boy oh boy, does Bucky ever know.

"Nobody's gonna hear about it from us," he says. "As long as you're happy, man, that's all I need to know about it. You're happy?"

Moon Knight is saved from having to answer by the loud CRUNCH of vibranium-on-lesser-metal.

He looks over his shoulder, then drops the cape, so Bucky can see. The gunbot is frozen, lightly smoking from around the shield half-buried in its chassis.

It takes both of them working together, with a lot of yanking and grunting, to pry it free.

"I was gonna say, you'll think it's stupid," says Moon Knight under his breath, scanning the walkway for more bots. "But maybe you wouldn't."

Bucky tosses the shield back up to Sam, and beckons for him and Scarab to fly ahead. "Promise I won't make fun of you for it. At least, not when anybody's listening."

As they follow on foot, Moon Knight finally gets out, "I don't...understand...how I'm allowed to be this happy?"

Oh, mood. (That's an expression Bucky's seen on the internet. He's mostly-sure he's using it right.)

"I just -- look, I swear I'm not saying this to wallow in self-pity, but, realistically? There's no way I deserve either of them. Let alone both of them. I'm afraid if I talk about it too much, the universe will notice it screwed up, and take them away."

"Oof. Yeah, I don't think that's stupid," says Bucky. "You go through enough bad stuff, you start thinking it's gotta be that you did something to deserve it, because what's the alternative? That you deserve good things, but the world is just cruel and horrifying to random people for no reason? Now that's terrifying."

Moon Knight gives him a narrow look. "You're therapizing at me. Knock it off."

Bucky grins. "Found one, did you?"

"Me? Still no." Moon Knight sighs. "The other guy -- what did you call him, Reform Moon Knight -- he's got one. And sometimes he talks about things they've said. And I try not to admit this, because he gets unbelievably smug every time he catches it, but...sometimes I pay attention."

Chapter Text

Steven really thought this team-up was going well -- they got the bad guys plastered to a wall with a series of sticky-net arrows, then neatly knocked out with a knockout-gas arrow, because Hawkeye Junior has one for every bloody occasion, apparently -- until the ex-Widow tackles him.

She's good. Steven was switching off channeling Marc's and Jake's skills during the fight, and he's pretty seamless at working with both of them by now -- but even if one of them was fronting, Yelena probably would've just needed three or four moves to get them pinned to the ground.

As-is, she does it in two. "Point an arrow over here, Kate Bishop."

Baby Hawkeye gapes in shock -- apparently she wasn't expecting this either -- but it doesn't stop her from aiming an arrow right for Steven's eye. (The coordination between these two is damn near seamless. Reminds Steven of watching Barnes with Wilson...or even Marc with Layla.) "What gives, Yelena? I thought we liked him!"

"We do like him," says the blonde. "This is helping. Did you not see how his fighting form kept changing? There were at least two, maybe three, completely different."

Marc could kick himself. We must've let the suit switch by accident. I knew we should've practiced this more...

It didn't switch, protests Jake. I was watchin' for that specifically, and it didn't.

"Uh," says Hawkette. "Didn't catch that at all, no. But so what? Aren't you trained in, like, eight different fighting styles?"

"Seventeen. But those are techniques, Kate Bishop! I always have the same strength, the same reaction times, the same capabilities. This one changes. The last time I saw a person switch this completely, she was a brainwashed child assassin who was programmed to fully embody the fighting styles of others, with no will of her own."

"Oi!" protests Steven. He's cooperating and not struggling, at least for now, but he can't just let that one slide. "I'm not a brainwashed child anything."

"Yes, yes, that is exactly what a brainwashed child assassin would say." To Kate, Yelena adds. "Get the Red Dust."

"Um...do you want me to get the Red Dust, or keep the arrow on him?"

"Seriously? Seriously, Kate Bishop? Are you telling me you have not constructed a Red Dust arrow yet?"

"It's on my to-do list!"

We are not letting Halcóncita drug us! snaps Jake inside their head, and shoves his way to the front.

All their effort to keep the suit consistent goes down the drain as Steven's suit turns into Jake's armor. Kate lets out a yelp of surprise, and they're damn lucky she's a professional or they would've gotten that arrow to the face.

If Yelena is startled too, it's not enough to be thrown off when Jake starts trying to twist out of her grip. "A normal arrow would be excellent right now, Kate Bishop!"

We can't fight our way out of this one, mate! says Steven, trying to pull Jake back. Think about everything we know about the Widow program, we're no match for that -- besides, they're not doing this to hurt us, they're worried about us -- 

"No, it wouldn't! We already know he can heal from that!"

We could tell them, thinks Steven.

An outburst of protest from all sides of his head.

Think about the Widow program, repeats Steven. Kidnaps orphan girls, trains them to be killers, makes them practice fighting on each other as soon as they're old enough to walk? No way Yelena Belova hasn't seen someone with a dissociative disorder before.

Hawkeye Junior stores the arrow she had notched, whips out a handful of others. "Uh, got a knockout gas arrow...taser arrow...USB arrow...?"

Just stick with the "moon is very mysterious" story, pleads Marc. Jake, Steven's gotta do the talking, let him have the body. Steven, please...

Steven agrees -- he still thinks the reveal might work out, but he wants it to be a choice, not something he bullied the others into. Jake has it harder -- they can all feel how much he hates this, practically vibrating with how desperate he is to punch his way out of this -- but he lets Steven swap in.

...which means a blade he hadn't noticed pressed against the plates of Jake's armor slides right through the fabric of Steven's tailored suit jacket.

"Ow!" he yelps. "Please, I am trying to stay calm, but it'll be so much easier if you don't stab me, yeah?"

Yelena grumbles something in what might be Russian, but pulls out the knife. "The fancy dinner suit means 'calm'?"

"Usually." Steven takes a couple of deep breaths as the wound heals. "Look, don't try to make too much sense of it, all right? I can swap between different suits, summon different weapons, channel a few different fighting styles. There's not always a specific reason for which one happens. Moon's just really bloody mysterious like that."

The ex-Widow hums. "And how did you come to be like this?"

"Yelena!" hisses Kate. (She did pick a new arrow at some point, though, and she's not so miffed at Yelena that she won't point this one at Steven too.) "You can't just ask someone their origin story!"

"If there are more unregistered programs for super-soldier experiments, the Avengers will need to know, yes?"

"Well, if you must know," snaps Steven, "I died, and made a deal with a god to come back to life."

A wave of panic from Marc. I didn't say you could tell them about that!

Surprisingly, it's Jake who holds him back. You told Steven to talk, ay? So let him talk.

"I, uh, don't suppose three days later you rose again from the dead?" says Kate.

"It was more like...six hours? Maybe eight. On this plane, anyway."

Because Steven isn't telling them Marc's origin story, dammit, he's telling his.

"How long my soul spent wandering the interconnected planes of post-corporeal existence -- hard to say. All I know is, I walked through the halls of memories of my life, and the lives of those who were ordained as Avatars of Khonshu before me...and I was nearly lost in the sands of the dead, when the soul of an earlier Moon Knight returned from the Field of Reeds to guide me out...and I was led back into my body, and offered a deal. So I was charged with protecting the travelers of the night; and I was restored with the power of this healing armor; and I was invested with the Gift of the Chorus, made up of the memories of Khonshu's previous Fists, so that I might go into battle using their skills and prowess as my own."

It's very promising that neither woman has a witty comment to make about that.

"Please don't ask me to show you the fighting styles of a hundred different Fists, though?" adds Steven, as an afterthought. "I've only really got the hang of a couple of them."

Kid Hawkeye doesn't lower the arrow, but she does sigh. "Okay, Yelena, is that good enough? Do you believe him? I mean, I didn't want to shoot the guy either way, so it would be super cool if you believed him."

Kid Widow's grip isn't relaxing. "He could still be making it up," she says, almost sulkily. "How would I know? I am not one of Clint Barton's magical mind-reading friends."

"Do you want me to call Clint Barton and have him get one of his magical mind-reading friends? Because it's, like, three in the morning where he is, but I could do it."

"If you want to reach someone in a closer time zone," pipes up Steven, "you could contact King Valkyrie. Or the Black Panther. Both of them can confirm the whole moon-god-Avatar part."

Kate snorts. "Yeah, that would still involve calling Clint. I do not have access to the International Avengers Royalty Hotline yet."

After a long moment, Yelena admits, "I do not need you to wake Clint Barton up, Kate Bishop."

"Oh, thank god," bursts out Kate, lowering her bow. "Uh -- not any god in particular, especially if any of them happen to be listening -- just, you know, small-g god. The general concept of god...ness."

"He's not hanging about," says Steven quickly. "You're in the clear."

Chapter Text

Gosh, this guy's been around for a while, thinks Steven, as Marc creeps down a lavishly-decorated hallway in the dark and deserted studio. Or did they do some of these posters in an older style, as a throwback thing?

It's not relevant to the mission or anything, but Jake knows the answer, so: It's not all the same guy. It's four generations -- acting talent runs in the family. Son of Sarosh there stars the oldest one, Youthful Love has his son, Phantom Gun has the grandson...unless that's the great-grandson...or maybe the great-grandson is the one acting now? I forget. He's also directed some stuff -- but honestly, the guy should stick to acting.

He wasn't trying to show off or anything, but Steven is practically glowing with admiration, and it's kinda nice. I never knew you knew this kind of thing, Jake! How long have you been a Bollywood fan?

Eh, some mercenary job we did in Delhi way back when. Wasn't anything else on TV, and some of these are pretty good.

"Wouldn't have thought they were sexy enough for you," says Marc under his breath. "Don't they have a thing where they have to cut away before they even show a kiss?"

Oh, c'mon, I got diverse tastes sometimes, protests Jake. Besides, don't you have any imagination? The leading man and lady are givin' each other smoldering bedroom eyes, they lean toward each other, smash-cut to a fireworks show so explosive it lights up the whole sky -- you know what that means.

There's a silence in their head -- long enough that Jake starts to worry that maybe Marc did not, in fact, know what the fireworks meant -- but no, it turns out what Marc is building up to is, "Jake? You want to front for this one?"

In their head, Jake is suddenly suspicious. What? Why?

"Get a closer look at the scenery while we're here? I know if we had a mission that took us backstage on the Tomb Busters set, I would've called dibs."

Jake's first (private) reaction is, hell no, I'm not falling for this trap.

Then he catches himself thinking it. And he double-checks why he's thinking it. The only other people here are Marc and Steven -- neither of them is trying to find his vulnerable spots so they can go after him, neither of them will take the things Jake likes and use them as leverage to drive the knife in -- so, okay, why is it a trap, then?

Maybe it's not a trap?

He doesn't admit anything in words to the others (especially not Steven, who's gonna be extra-smug once he figures out Jake is also listening to his therapy talk), just gently elbows Marc aside and takes the body.

Just his luck, he's barely settled in when there's a flash of movement in the corner of their eye -- something so dark-on-dark they never would've seen it without the suit -- and the chase is on.

They crash through the halls, then through a series of beautiful soundstage sets. The target is wearing what must be something from the costume department, a sari with hand-embroidered details and a million tiny glittering beads. Jake feels so bad that he's probably gonna shred the thing.

He shakes off the bad feeling. Not his fault the vampire isn't fleeing in jeans.

He catches up to her in the middle of some big pillared dance hall, fake walls on three sides, cameras all wrapped up for the night on the fourth. Jake tackles the vampire to the mosaic-tiled floor -- she snarls and goes for his throat, but her fangs clink uselessly against the armor -- Jake holds her down with one arm and draws a silver crescent dart with the other --

A bolt of golden light comes out of nowhere and punches Jake in the chest, flinging him backward to leave a crunchy dent in one of the plaster walls.

The vampire lets out a cry of innocent maidenly terror, and runs to hide behind her rescuer, pleading in Hindi.

...and, oh hell, that's Raj Kingo Deva.

Latest and sexiest son of the Kingo dynasty. In the flesh.

He's wearing a practical T-shirt and slacks, but he's doing an unmistakable Hero Pose that radiates confidence, and says something threatening that would probably be even more intimidating if Jake knew a word of Hindi. One of his hands is doing a finger-gun. More literally than usual -- there's a bullet-sized sphere of golden light hovering at the tip of his index finger.

"Look, I'm a vampire slayer, all right?" says Jake. In English, which he knows Kingo understands, because maybe he's seen an interview or two on Youtube, whatever. "And the lady there is a vampire."

"Yes, I know she's a vampire," says Kingo, in impatient English.

Judging by the vampire's double-take, (a) she also speaks the extra language, and (b) she didn't know that he knew.

"She's also one of our very best dancers," continues Kingo, "and we absolutely cannot afford to lose any more of those on this production, we've already had three hospitalized for..."

He trails off, before what Jake is pretty sure would've been the English for anemia severa.

Por Dios, Kingo is hot, ripped, casually confident with superpowers, and dumb as a Labrador retriever.

Jake sends out a quiet prayer -- not to Khonshu, obviously, but to any non-asshole deities who might be listening -- that he won't check any of their "Jake is not allowed to flirt with this one" boxes. 

The man mutters something that's probably Hindi for oh for fuck's sake, turns, and energy-bolts the vampire directly in the heart. Her shriek rings off the ceiling as she dissolves into ash, leaving nothing but the expensive sari as it drops to the floor.

"Sorry about the mix-up," says Kingo, back in English, darting over to help Jake up. "I'm Kingo, by the way."

"Yeah, I know." Jake stands, gives the guy's hand a little extra squeeze, then casually brushes the plaster dust off his cape. "I'm sort of a fan."

"Really? Wow! You have good taste," says Kingo with a pleased little smile. "And, sorry, who are you? I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"Oh, trust me -- if you'd ever had the pleasure, you'd remember," purrs Jake. "I go by Moon Knight. Avatar of Khonshu."

The smile breaks into a wide grin. "Khonshu! Aw, I haven't seen that guy since the sealing of Ammit! How's he doing?"

...goddammit.

He might not be anything! thinks Steven encouragingly. Immortal, obviously, but he's not got the divine energy that was all over the place in New Asgard. 

Jake isn't taking any chances. "All right, which god are you?"

"Me?" Kingo laughs, warm and bubbly. "I'm not any god."

Jake is not getting his hopes up…

"Now, we've been mistaken for gods -- and a few of us encourage it, though just between us, I think it's a little tacky -- but no."

Still not…

"We're the…I guess you could say, Avatars?...of somebody who totally outranks the 'god' tier. Don't tell Khonshu I said that. The Overvoid bunch always get a little testy about it."

…and there it is.

"Nice to meet you," says Jake. "I should get going."

"Aw, what's the hurry?" Kingo pats him on the shoulder, touch lingering a second too long. "It's been forever since I've talked with anybody from that scene. We could grab a drink, catch up on all the divine gossip…I can tell you some embarrassing stories to use on Khonshu the next time he hassles you…uh, if he's making his priests do the ascetic thing now, it can be my treat? Or, really, to be fair, it should be my treat unless you are also secretly a rich and famous movie star or five."

Jake needs to say no. He really, desperately needs to say no. Because Kingo is charming and friendly and just a bit vulnerable, and if he makes a move, Jake is gonna forget every promise he ever made and climb the man like a tree.

He's gonna say it. Any second now.

Kingo takes a step toward the door, and beckons with his head for Jake to follow. He's got this cute half-smile going now, and, okay, maybe his eyes aren't at full smolder yet, but they are absolutely goddamn sparkling.

Jake's breath hitches--

Then Steven pulls him out of the body, while Marc slides into it, stands at attention, turns up the lights on his eyes so bright that it floods the stage with moonlight, and bellows:

"Cease this frivolous conversation, my Knight! I have need of your services elsewhere. Move it!"

They let Jake back in.

"Ooh. Forgot he did that," says Kingo ruefully, wincing. (Fuck, even his wince is handsome.) "I better not keep you. I know you got in here on your own, but let me walk you out, okay?"

"Thanks," pants Jake, hoarse from the yelling (did Marc have to go that hard?), as he falls in step next to Kingo. "Sorry I gotta cut this short. It was really nice to meet you."

"Oh, right back at you," says Kingo. "Standing invitation, though! If you're ever back in town for another mission, feel free to call me up."

"Really? Like…just on your phone?"

"Well, obviously not my phone. I am much too busy to take my own calls! I'll give you my publicist's number. There's a code, so she knows when it's someone I don't want her to blow off, okay? Tell her you're with my friends from college."

*

An explosive display of fireworks lights up the night sky.

Not metaphorical sex fireworks. Stupid, boring, literal fireworks. 

Jake watches from his seat on the scalloped dome roof of some historic temple, and feels so miserable that Steven isn't even scolding him not to sit here.

We had to do it, thinks Marc. He's not even lecturing or blaming Jake, he's being nice about it. You needed an extraction. It wasn't safe...

"I know!" yells Jake. "I don't wanna end up on the wrong side of Mystery Next-Level Super-God any more than you do! No one-night stand is worth that, even if it is with a hot immortal movie star who's been an international sex symbol for five generations in a row! It's a good rule, I support the rule, you do not have to justify the fuckin' rule to me!"

He disappears the cowl, then the whole suit, and runs his hands roughly through his hair. A new round of fireworks scream their way up to the sky, where they explode in showers of red-and-gold sparkles.

"He was so goddamn hot, though," he says, voice cracking.

I know, buddy, thinks...Marc, of all people.

"I mean." Jake sniffles. "Did you see his ass? Or those thighs?"

Could hardly miss 'em, soothes Steven. I was wondering why the industry didn't ask more questions about a new identical-looking guy showing up every generation...well, gosh, I wouldn't have complained either.

"Every goddamn generation," agrees Jake. "Always pickin' up new human contacts...always gotta drop the last bunch, so they won't figure out what he is. Sounds like those 'friends from college' haven't come around in a hot minute either. When d'you think was his last chance to have a real conversation, huh? Millions of people lookin' at him every day, and not a single fuckin' one of them sees him...!"

He's gotta stop thinking about this. He wants to go back to the studio. He can't go back. He has to stop, or the others are gonna have to drag him all the way into headspace and stuff him in one of their psychic coffins to keep him from going back.

You want to go inside and be alone? asks Marc. Or you want to stay out here together for a while? Whatever you need.

(Jake is not falling for this trap.)

(...maybe this is not a trap.)

He pulls on the others, and they immediately draw in, doing the mental equivalent of wrapping their arms around Jake from either side and squeezing. His sense of reality, his usual hyper-awareness, goes pleasantly soft and fuzzy as they overlap him in the body. They don't wreck it by saying anything sappy -- they just hold him.

Maybe it's not the thing Jake wants most in the world right now...but he'll take it.

Chapter Text

Do not crescent-dart the extremely historic ruins, Marc! pleads Steven, as Marc sprints through the archway of what used to be the opulent tomb of a powerful royal, and is now, well, not much more than an archway.

"They're already ruined! By definition!" hisses Marc. "And I don't see the sorcerers taking a hell of a lot of care with them."

The sorcerers can fix them with magic! Probably. I assume. We can't!

Marc groans...but when he throws a dart at the next demon (?), he aims so it ends up in a tree.

The "demons" are cat-sized masses of grungy, oily smoke, no features except the rings of spikes that Marc is imagining as teeth in a mouth, mostly because it's way too gross the other way around. Attacking with Earth-made weapons just goes right through them; attacking with magic bolts or crescent darts makes them go poof. (Kicking or punching them also makes them go poof, but the limb you hit them with goes all numb and icky for a bit.)

It's one of those missions where Moon Knight is basically just providing backup for the sorcerers. There's like eight of them in view, and the falling twilight makes it easy to see flashes of magic from more-distant combatants. They're probably wondering why he's even here...

"Aaaaaugh!" The yell echoes off stone walls, along with the awkward thump-thump-thump of someone tumbling down a flight of stairs.

...but, dammit, at least Marc has some superpowers! He takes a flying leap over an aging stone railing into a stepwell that plunges three stories under ground level, and magically glides down to a soft landing, where he catches Katy before she can descend any farther.

"Oof," she groans. "Thanks, Moon-Dude. Boy, that was embarrassing. Don't tell Shang, okay?"

"He won't hear it from me," says Marc. "Look -- sorry if this is a stupid question, but -- you don't have superpowers, right...?"

"Nope. Just the bow and arrow."

"Then...I mean...why are you here?"

"Pssh, what? It worked out fine for Hawkeye."

"Hawkeye was a trained marksman, assassin, intelligence operative, and agent of SHIELD," counters Marc as he helps Katy up, slinging one of her arms over his shoulders. "Hawkeye Junior is a nationally-ranked archer with gymnastics and martial-arts training, and she's learning all of Hawkeye Senior's dumb-but-surprisingly-useful trick arrows. Yours are just... arrow arrows."

"Yeah, well." Katy moves up the stairs one slow step at a time, leaning heavily on Marc. She's pulled something, or maybe sprained something -- Layla would've ID'd the problem by now, but apparently Katy doesn't have field-medic training, either. "Turns out...when the guy you've been protecting since you were kids turns out to be way more tough and badass and combat-ready than he ever let on, and then he gets some magic weapons and wants to start going on missions all over the world...it's still not that easy to let him run off alone, actually."

...dammit, Marc is not getting choked up, he's on a mission here.

(Doesn't help that, over his shoulders, he can hear Steven -- and even Jake! -- cooing in admiration.)

A handful of smoke-demons roll up over the lip of the staircase. Marc starts throwing darts one-armed. He's fast, but his aim is compromised, so he and Katy have to smack the last few out of existence with their hands.

Marc grimaces at the slimy feeling on his whole arm. "How long are we gonna be doing pest control here, do you know?"

"Wong said there's a summoning sigil around here somewhere. Once they find it, they'll know how to...anti-summon, I guess..." Katy's voice trails off as she sags against Marc. "Ugh, sorry, don't feel so good..."

Uh-oh. She doesn't look so good either.

No chance she's got a skin condition with fast-actin' flare-ups? thinks Jake hopefully.

At the same moment, Katy's Kamar-Taj communication device (Marc was not offered one, not after Shang-Chi helpfully explained to Wong about "the microphone he's already got in his cowl") crackles to life. "All available hands to the containment shields! No portals until further notice. All astral projectors, return to your bodies. Anyone who's been hit, focus on healing!"

"Gonna carry you for a minute," says Marc, and doesn't wait for permission before scooping Katy's whole weight in his arms and springing into flight. Hovering over the tree line, he shouts, "Is there a doctor in the house?"

*

So there's good news, and there's bad news.

Bad news is, getting hit by the oily little monsters is more damaging than anyone had realized: messing you up on a spiritual level, before it even gets around to making your skin crack and turn greyish. And the corruption can be contagious from one person to the next.

Good news, the sorcerers have a big shield around the area to block the contagion from spreading outside it. For the already-affected, standard magic and Khonshu's armor can both keep the symptoms down. Even the non-magical Katy looks way better after Doctor Strange has a moment to work on her.

More good news: Strange doesn't object to having Moon Knight's help. Even though he sarcastically refers to them as "Jar Thief."

"So we found the sigil," says another sorcerer over the comms. He's a cow. (That's not an insult, he is literally shaped like a green cow. Marc doesn't know if he's an alien or a shapeshifter or cursed or what, and isn't gonna ask.) "But I didn't recognize it right away, and you need to astral-project to see it, and if we all need to stay in our bodies to keep them healed..."

"Send me in!" demands Shang-Chi. He's on the outside of the quarantine shield, and sounds like he's taking "being locked on the other side from Katy" only slightly better than Steven took "being sealed in a literal sarcophagus." "I didn't get hit, my body's fine, get my soul in there."

"Nothing doing, Karate Kid," says Strange, ducking slightly so Marc can crescent-dart a demon charging up at him from behind. (They're in a crumbling stone gazebo at the top of a grassy hill. Gives Marc good sight-lines on everything.) "We don't know what could happen if these monsters get into the Ten Bracelets, and I for one don't feel like finding out."

Katy, lying prone on the floor of the gazebo and visibly trying not to scratch her still-kinda-cracking skin, says, "Okay, cool. I don't have any magic gadgets, and I'm not the one healing myself anyway. Send me."

Strange raises one of his impeccably-arched eyebrows. "Right, how many arcane summoning spells do you recognize on-sight? Because I'm betting you couldn't even tell the Rings of Raggadorr from the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak."

"I can describe it to you, genius."

"...oh," says Strange. "Huh. All right, let's give it a shot."

Marc keeps steadily crescent-darting all comers, while Katy sits up, Strange makes some fancy gestures, then his hand does a quick sharp smack into her chest.

-- the carefully-rewound corruption explodes outward with full force, black-edged cracks running all across her skin, drying, peeling, Marc yanks his head around as fast as he can before Steven has to see chunks of it sloughing off --

Strange curses a blue streak in a mix of English and Sanskrit, then Katy is yelling in what sounds like a mix of pain and pure icked-outness, while strobes of magic cast multicolored lights past Marc's sides onto the night-shadowed hill.

"The hell is going on in there?" shouts Shang-Chi. "If she dies, Strange, my supervillain origin story is on you!"

Katy hacks wetly for a second, spits a glob of something into the grass, and responds, hoarse but firm, "You are not your father, Shang!"

"I was kidding!" protests Shang-Chi, but his voice cracks over the words in a way that isn't funny at all. "...Mostly!"

"She's fine, we got it fixed, it's safe for Moon Man to turn around now," announces Strange. "But, listen, remember how we just said anyone who's been hit should keep their soul in their body? Highlight that, circle it, double-underline it, turns out this stuff goes absolutely buckwild when there's not a soul in your body."

Huh, thinks Steven. Just figured out why they need us here.

Marc turns around -- nice and cautious in case Strange was messing with him, but yeah, it does look like Katy's back to the "uncomfortable non-fatal skin condition" stage. "So, Doc...that karate-smack thing you just did...can you make it, like, a light tap?"

*

The sigil gets described, the demons get de-summoned, the magic infections get cleared up, and the magic barriers come down.

Katy and Shang-Chi's joyous, tearful, desperately-hugging reunion is the highlight of the aftermath. Steven wants to stick around and appreciate it, but Jake points out they should slip away while everyone's distracted, and Marc agrees.

He's almost to the edge of the ruins before Strange's cape swoops down on them, and picks them up by the scruff like a human handling a kitten.

In a rustle of old fabric on older bone, Khonshu falls into step beside them. "This impertinent fabric shows no respect for the First of Khonshu!" he snarls. "Slice it to rags!"

"Oh, get over yourself," mutters Marc, as he's dragged gently back toward Strange and Wong.

The two sorcerers are kind enough to stand in the dug-out foundation of a long-gone temple, while the cape plops Moon Knight on the stone wall that frames it. Giving him the high ground. (Showing off that they don't need the high ground, and they know it.)

Wong gets right to the point. "Would you care to explain how you did...any of that?"

"No," says Marc.

Strange sighs. "C'mon, man, give us something here, okay? You keep whipping out unprecedented new powers at the drop of a hat, and it's freaking Wong out."

"Is not," huffs Wong.

"Is too."

"Hang on, what was 'unprecedented' about it?" asks Marc. Steven's the one who keeps track of Who's Seen Moon Knight(s) Do What, but he's got all the details neatly laid out for Marc to tap into. "Wasn't hard to shake off the demons. The armor of Khonshu gives the Moon Knight incredibly high resistance to hostile magic. Wong's seen me use that before."

"These demons and that urn operate on entirely different magical principles," grumbles Wong. (Steven, in Marc's head, forlornly holds himself back from asking for details.)

"And the way your body kept taking down demons on its own, without your soul in it?" presses Strange. Either his mystical senses can't pick up on Khonshu towering over him, casting him in shadows that only Marc can see...or he has an absolutely killer poker face.

"Excuse me," says Marc, "your cape just firmly escorted me over here, and you're confused about how an entire magic suit can handle its own self-defense?"

The cape swoops back over to Strange. Instead of wrapping itself around his shoulders, though, it gives him a little pat on the head. As if to say he's got you there.

"So...that was the suit," echoes Wong. "Moving under its own power."

"That's what I said."

"Does it, uh, have a soul of its own?" asks Strange. "I mean, are we being rude, not treating it like its own person? Or are we talking limited autonomous functions, here?"

Hey, limited autonomous fuck you, thinks Jake.

Marc struggles a bit with the answer. Because, yeah, it was Jake who took the body just then (and apparently did a solid "non-person running on autopilot" impression). But "does the suit have the power to act on its own?" is a question that's starting to keep them up at night.

"Look, gentlemen," he says at last. "If you want to keep interrogating me, you're gonna have to skip to non-consensually breaking into my mind and reading the answers. Which, gotta be honest, I do not recommend."

"How do you know we're not doing it right now?" points out Strange.

Wong makes a strangled noise of protest.

"All right, so Wong is an honorable guy who would never violate the sanctity of somebody's thoughts like that. How do you know I'm not doing it right now?"

Though the sorcerers can't see it, Marc lets his face split into a grin.

"There's nobody extra in here," he says. "We'd know."

He can feel Jake, at his back, wielding a psychic weapon that manifests in the shape of their favorite Beretta. He can feel Steven, opening a trap door into the messy labyrinth that forms most of their inner world, ready to snap it closed around any intruders and keep them going in circles until (or unless) they're let out.

In the night above, thickening storm clouds scud over the moon...then split just enough to direct a single cold silver spotlight down on the Moon Knight, at the same moment as his cape billows into a crescent from a perfectly-timed gust of wind.

"Whoa." Strange sounds like he's actually impressed, not just being sarcastic. "Fancy."

Wong looks around, not quite seeing Khonshu, but staring a little longer and squinting a little harder when his eyes are pointed in the right direction. "Is he here, then? Your moon god?"

"You will warn the lords of Kamar-Taj," rumbles Khonshu, "that they have not come up so far in this world as to threaten my Avatars without consequence."

"He says hi," says Marc. "And he really likes how this alliance is working so far -- new age of the world and all that, very exciting -- but, if you could just...respect the right of the moon to be real frickin' mysterious? Please?"

Chapter Text

Marc, Layla, and Barnes are all standing guard for anyone entering the warehouse, while Wilson puts some low-level gang-adjacent errand boy through the most painful and torturous interrogation Marc has ever heard.

...not that Wilson is hurting him, or anything. He's just trying to have the conversation in Spanish. Emphasis on "trying."

Marc, loquito, you gotta let me take this, thinks Jake, as their scrawny captive chatters in lightning-fast Spanish and Wilson makes a futile effort to calm him down. Should've let me run this one in the first place.

"Wilson said he could handle it," mutters Marc under his breath.

Wilson was obviously wrong! Maybe he can handle a friendly chat at the counseling center, but unless we need to interrogate this kid about dónde está la biblioteca, Flyboy is out of his depth and you know it.

Unfortunately, Marc knows. "What if you just...co-pilot? Puedo seguir tu español. If you help me translate the responses..."

Jake counters with a long stream of Spanish venting -- which Marc absolutely cannot follow. It's as quick as the kid's, words tripping over each other...but without the usual undercurrent of feelings and mental images that Jake would push along with it, and, dammit, Marc did not appreciate how much those help. He tracks as far as "Si crees que puedes--", misses the next verb, and then loses the thread completely.

In a soft swish of fabric, Layla lands at his side. "Moon Knight, could you..."

"Working on it," admits Marc. "Just a second."

Look, I get that you're scared I'm gonna embarrass you in front of the cool kids, adds Jake, in English again. But not screwing this up is more important.

"You'll keep the mask on?" whispers Marc. It comes out sounding smaller than he meant to.

Si, hermano.

Marc sighs, nods to Layla, then circles over to Barnes. "Hey. I'm gonna go summon someone, okay? You haven't met him, but Scarab knows him, and he's cool. I promise."

Barnes nods. "Anyone you trust, we trust."

*

A guy in a whole new Moon Knight suit -- same cape and hood as the mummy outfit, but the body is mostly jet-black, with a few silvery-white armor pieces -- drops out of apparently-nowhere. "Tap out, chico volador, I'll take it from here," he says in gruff English, waving Sam out of the way.

Sam frowns at him, then throws a questioning look at Bucky, who replies with a metallic thumbs-up.

The new guy immediately starts speaking to the kid, in fast and easy Spanish. Sounds confident without being threatening. Sam only catches a few words, a dinero here and a comprende there. And, once, the phrase Capitán América negro -- which must've made him wince or something, because Spanish Moon Knight breaks into English long enough to say "That's just what the word is in español, don't get your spandex in a bunch," then goes back to the kid.

Under his questions, their captive warms right up. Not like Sam is still getting much of the words, but the tone of his replies goes from panicky-and-defiant to anxious-but-relieved to pleading-and-hopeful.

A few minutes into this, New Moon Knight tips his head at Sam and says, "Hey, amigo, you got any stories about, ah...someone screwing you over because of how you look? Somethin' short. Bonus if it involves money."

That raises Sam's eyebrows, but he goes with it. "A few months after the Blip, I got turned down for a loan to save my family's home. Wasn't like they didn't recognize me, either. The loan officer thanked me for helping save the world -- asked if he could get a selfie with me, which, I let him -- then turned around and said, that was great, but still no."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Wow, fuck that guy," says Caballero Luna, then turns back to the kid and translates.

Another minute of intense conversation, then he waves for Bucky and Scarlet Scarab to come join them, and rattles off an address. Bucky immediately starts typing it into his arm.

"You three head right over, I'll catch up," says Spanish Moon Knight, squeezing the kid's shoulder. "Or maybe the other Moon Knight will catch up. Or both. First, this genius has a kid sister and two dogs that we're gonna make sure he gets home to."

"Oh, good," says Scarlet Scarab. "Be careful out there, okay?"

Moon Knight Tres clicks his tongue. "When am I ever not careful, escarabajita?"

They leave the warehouse, and are about to split paths when Bucky says, "Hey, can I ask just one question?"

"Can't promise any answers, but yeah, you can ask."

Sam has about thirty questions, and Bucky goes with one that wasn't even on his list: "If the mummy outfit is Orthodox Priest of Khonshu...and the ice cream suit is Reform Priest of Khonshu...what's this one?"

"El modo oscuro," says New Moon Knight, and swoops away.

Bucky frowns. "Okay, Sam, I know your Spanish was just put to the test and didn't do super hot, but..."

Sam lets out a deep, world-weary sigh. "He said, that one's 'dark mode'."

*

Layla and Bucky both have motorcycles, Sam saves rocket fuel by hanging on to the back of Bucky's, and as they speed toward the new address, he calls from the next lane:

"Look -- this is probably gonna sound real paranoid, but -- if that guy was just your husband doing a different accent, you would tell us, right?"

Layla scoffs. "That is absolutely not my husband!" she calls back, revving around a corner. "Right now he isn't even part of the polycule."

That makes Bucky's ears prick up. "You mean like he used to be in the polycule? Or like he's going to be in the polycule?"

"...is what we would ask, if we were a couple of shamelessly nosy gossips!" adds Sam. "Which we are not!"

They split up to pass on either side of a lumbering truck, swerving back into formation as they leave it in the dust.

Look, there are a lot of things Layla could say, here. How "Dark Mode" might as well be part of it, given how much input the rest of them claim on who he can hit on. How the other two Moon Knights are the most important people in his life, no matter who else he hooks up with. And how Layla is careful not to press him on what that means, because if anyone calls Jake out on having feelings, he'll probably go MIA for the next month.

"There's no sordid breakup story here!" is all she says out loud. "He's a trusted ally. And a dear friend. And will be completely devoted to anyone he ends up with! He just isn't my husband. Sorry to disappoint."

Chapter Text

It's exciting it's fantastic it's the most fun he's had in years it's like there are fizzy light bubbles exploding all around his brain it's amazing. They're all bouncing around in the body fuzzy and overlapping so he's not sure which one he is half the time and they're all having fun so who even cares? He skips, he cartwheels, he jumps off the edge of a crater and rolls down the edge like a snowy hill except it's big and rock and not soft at all, but he's too light and bright and full of power to get bruised! And Marc gets tangled in the cape by the time they reach the bottom but Steven makes the cape go away and Jake rolls over a few more times and laughs and laughs!

He flies out of the crater again and skips around some more and it's beautiful, rocks everywhere, the best rocks, Steven knows there are minerals in moon rocks that you don't get on Earth at all, how cool is that? Jake wants to see them in the rocks. They can look at all the rocks! How long could it take?

And then there's a lady in the sky, not wearing a spacesuit any more than they are, and she's glowing all gold like a tiny sun shaped like a person and Jake thinks she's the most beautiful woman in the world.

"She is not, you doofus!" says Steven, whacking Jake in the face, which means whacking himself in the face but it's okay because it's not like it hurts anyway! "Layla's the most beautiful woman in the world!"

Marc's perfect mood is pierced just a little by a sudden bit of fear. "Khonshu! Did you trick us? Is this not a real vacation? Are we here to kill her?"

"You are not here to kill anyone, my Knights," intones Khonshu. He's as grumpy and boring as ever but his outfit is way fancier, lots of gold and new jewelry and no ripped parts at all, so they know he's happy to be here! "You are here to...have a nice time."

"Got that right," giggles Steven, and waves to the woman. "Hi! Hiiiii! We're on the moon!"

The woman touches lightly down on the grey rock. She's wearing red and blue with shiny gold accents and it's beautiful!

And now they recognize her! "Captain Marvel!" exclaims Marc, clapping his hands. "Carol Danvers! Air Force, right? Higher, further, faster!"

"That's me, yes," says Captain Marvel. "Although, uh, full disclosure, I don't remember most of my time in the human Air Force."

"That's okay!" says Marc quickly. "We don't remember lots of our time in the human Marines, either!"

"How am I hearing this, Danvers?" asks a new voice, that isn't Captain Marvel's, and makes all of them look around for more invisible gods.

"Some kind of localized bubble of atmosphere," reports Danvers. "Can't see any mechanical source, so I assume it's magic. Not sure if he's generating it, or someone else is doing it for him."

"Oh! Oh!" yelps Jake, delighted, pointing at the Captain's head. "You! Have a microphone! In the cowl!"

This is the most hilarious discovery ever to be discovered. They all fall over, they're laughing so hard.

"Think the oxygen in here might be turned up higher than human-standard," adds Danvers dryly.

"I heard a 'we'," says the voice on the actual microphone in her actual cowl. "He's got company?"

"Nobody I can pick up."

"No, no, it's okay!" laughs Steven, sitting up. "It's just us. I mean, it's just me. I'm a lunatic!" He flings out his arms, indicating the whole empty landscape around them. "Get it?"

"...okay, Fury, my translation software doesn't always catch jokes," says Danvers, crouching down so she's closer to Steven's eye level. "Is this a language you know, and if so, was that funny?"

"Mostly English, yeah. There was a bit that I think was either Spanish or Portuguese..."

"Spanish!" yells Jake, who would be furiously offended (get it?? Fury-ously??) if he wasn't having so much fun.

"...and that was a basic English moon pun. I would chalk all this up to bog-standard mental illness if he wasn't, you know, literally on the Moon."

"No, no, no, that's because we're the Avatar of a Moon God," says Marc. "And can you believe, I've been doing this for years and never asked if I could go to the moon? Then bam, one day he's all, the something something has harmonically converged with the something something, do you want a vacation? On the Moon? Where we are! Look how high I can jump!"

He takes a joyful leap into the lack-of-air.

Danvers takes off too, and keeps pace with them, which is super cool and amazing and not just because Steven's not actually sure if they could reach lunar escape velocity, but, like maybe they could??

"Okay, Fury, I think some divine prankster is having a little fun with this poor guy," she reports. "At least they were kind enough to set him up with a pressurized suit -- that part's definitely magic, it keeps changing shape on me -- and a breathable atmosphere. So they're probably not trying to kill him."

"It's all right!" explains Steven, as they arc back down toward the surface. "Even if we die, he'll bring us back!"

"The readings I'm getting off him are a little weird, but not as weird as...oh, take a wild example, me. I think he's harmless."

"Ohoho, we're not harmless anywhere, Capitána Chispitas!" says Jake. "But especially not here! You seein' how charged-up with moon power we are?"

"The gravity here is incredibly reduced from your planetary standard," points out Danvers.

"Yeah, yeah, forget the gravity! Charged up. Moon power!" Marc squares his fist and aims a punch at the ground between his feet. "Watch this--"

Khonshu does something that picks him up and sends him tumbling. "You are not here to punch the Moon, Marc Spector!"

"Fine, fine." Jake lands on his back, and he could get up, easy, but the view of the stars is so clear and sharp and pretty! He sticks up his arm and spreads out his fingers, trying to touch as many as he can reach. "Wish Thanos was here. I could punch him. Ooh, Thanos should've just tried coming to the moon, I woulda showed him!"

Marc swaps back in, and waves for Danvers to come closer. "Hey. Hey, hey, hey. C'mere."

He's not sure if the atmosphere went far enough for her to hear, or if she just saw the waving, but Danvers soars lightly back into the bubble and drops to one knee next to him, leaning over to hear.

"Hey, uh," whispers Marc. "I am extremely manic right now, right?"

From the cowl-mic, they hear Fury snort. "Is the sky blue?"

"Not right now it's not!" squeals Steven, and bursts out giggling again.

Danvers sighs. "Can we do a flyby on the planet and drop this guy off?"

"Oh! You mean on a spaceship?!" This is exciting enough for Steven to bounce back up to a sitting position. "Oh, can we ride on the spaceship, can we please?"

"This is a classified off-planet mission," complains Fury. "We're not a taxi service for every god's--"

Khonshu talks over him: "I am perfectly capable of transporting my own Moon Knight--"

"Oh, shut up, you overgrown chicken, I know you can transport us!" yells Marc. "That's not a spaceship, though! Captain Marvel's got a spaceship!"

Jake grins. "Frenchie's gonna die if he finds out we got to ride a spaceship."

"...Danvers, table the Moon Guy for a second," says Fury suddenly. "We're getting weird readings from the planet. You sense anything?"

Danvers rises to her feet, lifting slightly off the surface because she can fly so why would you not, and gazes across the horizon in the direction of the Earth. The whole Earth! Right over there! In the sky! It's so pretty and blue and white, just like all the astronauts say, everyone would have to be kinder to the planet if they knew how pretty and blue and white it was, Steven just knows it.

"Fury," says Danvers. All cold and steady, her voice and her posture both, like she just totally forgot how cool it is to be on the moon. "Take the ship out of cislunar space."

"What?"

"What's 'cislunar'?" chirps Steven. "Is that like 'cisgender' but for the moon?"

"Yes, yes, another very funny pun," says Danvers, making Steven nearly faint with joy. "Fury. Go. Meet us on the dark side, I'll explain there."

"You better," says Fury, and something in the sky -- something so dark and still Marc hadn't even noticed it against the backdrop of velvety night -- sparks and zips away like a shooting star.

Danvers turns down to them and says, "Hey, buddy...you wanna race?"

Jake leaps to his feet. "Do I!"

"Awesome." Danvers points to the horizon. "Last one over that ridge is a rotten egg."

She's barely finished talking when Jake and Marc both take off.

*

"For god's sake, Danvers, you couldn't have warned me about a WK-class end-of-the--"

"I didn't know! I swear to you, Fury, if anybody in the pan-galactic saving-people business knew how to detect these things..."

Emergences are rare. Carol's only seen the aftermath of one in person. Nobody in the whole galaxy detected a single one during the years of the Snap. They only happen on planets with sentient native species, but nobody's ever nailed down a threshold -- technological, creative, population-based -- that triggers them.

"...you would've shown up and rallied all of Earth's heroes to stop it?" says Fury hopefully.

Carol shakes her head. "I would've showed up and organized the most thorough planetary evacuation possible, in whatever time we had left."

"Excuse me!"

Carol and Fury both turn to Moon Knight, strapped in at the other end of the passenger bay. (Carol didn't want to leave him unattended, Fury didn't want to put off her debriefing a second longer than necessary, so they compromised by talking quietly.)

"Hi, listen -- I promise I'm at least thirty percent less high on moon-vibes than I was when you picked me up," he says, once he's got their attention. His costume backs that up; it's been steady on the mummy outfit for a few minutes now, instead of shapeshifting every few seconds. "Thank you for the ride. The view is amazing. Where are we going?"

"You," says Fury irritably, "are getting dropped off at the spaceport in New Asgard, where they can check you out for godly interference, and then the consulate of whatever-the-hell country you come from can arrange to get you home. Unless you remembered to bring your passport to the Moon."

"Oh! No, no I didn't, but that's fine. New Asgard is perfect! Very short flight from home, New Asgard is," says Moon Knight. "Can you take off the seatbelts? Please? I swear I'm not gonna touch anything, I will sit quietly and enjoy the view, the view is amazing, think I said that, can you just untie me?"

Fury clearly wants to say no -- but before he can get it out, Goose jumps up on Moon Knight's lap and purrs.

"Kitty!" squeals Moon Knight, absolutely enchanted.

"How about we compromise?" offers Carol. The flerken is clearly signaling that Moon Knight is trustworthy...or that Goose would have no trouble eating him if he tries anything...or, ideally, both. "I'll undo the straps, but you have to keep her on your lap."

"Oh, yes! Yes, please!" Once Moon Knight's arms (now in the dinner-jacket version of the suit) are free, he immediately seals his place in Goose's good books by giving the flerken enthusiastic skritches. "You're so pretty! Yes you are! The ancient Egyptians used to worship you, did you know that? And you deserve it! You sure do!"

Outside the window, huge cloudbanks part over the outline of a massive peninsula, a heavy teardrop-shaped island at the tip, rings of other islands just visible at the far edge of the sea they're flying over.

"Ooh, but this is the wrong way!" protests Moon Knight. "That's the Indian peninsula, we're flying southeast, New Asgard is back northwest of here!"

"We're taking the scenic route!" calls Fury. Under his breath, he adds to Carol, "Hey, I don't know how much you remember about standard human psychology...but it's a real short hop from mania to paranoia."

"Got it." So they're not explaining to him that they're doing a flyby of the epicenter of a Celestial Emergence, which has inexplicably stopped, and which they can only hope isn't going to start up again, because it'll guarantee the total demolition of planet Earth if it does.

"...and when we get to the Asgardians, we're having a nice long chat about what gods do and don't know."

"Right," says Carol. "Wait. Why?"

"You said nobody can predict an Emergence, and if you could, you'd evacuate people off-planet before it started." Fury nods at Moon Knight, now in the black armor, fully absorbed in stroking from Goose's head all the way to the base of her tail. "Sure looks to me like somebody caught it in time to evacuate him."

Chapter Text

"Evenin', señorita. Can I buy you a drink?"

The little circle of lawyers in the curved booth give Jake a whole set of courtroom-blank appraising looks. Okay, so it's gonna be a challenge. He can work with that.

"If you're not lookin' to get picked up tonight, no pressure," he says to the cute brunette at the end of the row. "But I was a big fan of your work today, and still wanna buy you a nice platonic drink, as a show of appreciation."

"My work," echoes the brunette, looking dubious. "Not the superpower stuff or anything. You're a fan of my actual work."

"Of course!" exclaims Jake. "I am, for reasons I'm not gonna get into right this second, a huge admirer of defense lawyers."

The next woman over, who didn't give any speeches in the courtroom but brought an incredible makeup game anyway, leans toward the main lawyer's ear and stage-whispers, "Okay, tiny little red flag, but points for being funny?"

Jake bends a little lower, holds one gloved hand to the side of his face, and stage-whispers right back, "If I turn out to be a creep, I'm pretty sure she can take me."

It gets a wry smile out of the cute brunette, but she's not won over quite yet. "Okay, smart guy," she says, plucking a chip from the shared bowl on the table and pointing a scoop of guacamole at him. "If you were in the gallery at the court today, what was your favorite part?"

"Aw, that's easy!" exclaims Jake. "When the guy in the mask and the cape burst through the door, draggin' a surprise last-minute witness -- and you just put 'im on the stand right away, an' whipped out a bunch of questions like you were prepared for literally anything? Incredible. I mean, even if you were prepared because you staged the whole thing, that's some quality drama right there."

Attorney Walters nods. "All right, Admirer of Defense Lawyers...you can buy me one drink."

*

One drink turns into two, turns into several. Jen is smart, and funny, and has great stories.

Marc checked out a while ago, once it became clear Jake might actually get some tonight. Steven is still lurking, always eager to hear Avengers-related news; but he keeps it quiet, so Jake can give the lady his undivided attention.

"Okay, full disclosure...we did not stage the whole superhero appearance, but I knew it might be a thing," she admits, over a glass of something green and fruity. "I'm not, like, a full-blown Avenger or anything -- but I've got access to the database, you know? Nothing super-classified, just enough that I can put out a call that's like 'hey, it's not a world-ending emergency or anything, but I could use some help finding a guy.' And if anyone's in the area, maybe they come find the guy. I guess today that was Moon Man."

"Moon Knight," corrects Jake.

"Huh. Yeah, that sounds right," says Jen. "You know your stuff."

"Swear, I'm not a groupie or anything," says Jake quickly. "I just -- I know this guy who's a huge nerd, follows all the superhero news, you can't get him to shut up about it."

On the edge of his consciousness, Steven pokes him. Oi, no putting me down to get a date.

"...anyway, I only pick on him because I love 'im to bits." Jake takes another gulp of his own drink. "Didn't used to know what that was like, y'know? Bio family sucks. Spent most'a my life not knowin' I could love people that much."

Think you better have some water, mate, thinks Steven gently. Another round of crisps, maybe.

Not that drunk, protests Jake, proud of himself for remembering to keep it inside his head. I've been going at the same pace Jen is, and she's tiny.

She's gone green twice in the past hour. I don't think that was just to have an easier time flagging down the bartender, yeah? How much faster is a Hulk's metabolism at processing alcohol?

Jake asks. Can't really get his tongue around the English word metabolism, but Jen picks up the idea. "Ooh. Probably should've warned you, sorry," she says with a grimace, swapping Jake's mug for an untouched glass of water and pushing a bowl of pretzels in front of him. "Yeah, that's a thing now. Can't get hangovers anymore, and it's pretty cool that I don't have to worry about getting roofied, but I forget that most people can't keep up, you know?"

"Ah, don't worry, I'm gonna be fine." Jake eases himself off the bar stool. Ooh, yeah, he's dizzier than he realized. "I will go splash some cold water on my face, then I'mma come back and not try to keep up with you anymore, deal?"

It makes Jen look sad for some reason, but all she says is, "Deal."

(You know what else is great at resetting your body from any kind of chemical impairment? The Moon Knight armor.)

The lady perks right back up again when Jake returns (after splashing on some water just to keep up appearances, and double-checking that his stage mustache still looks natural).

Now that Jake's brain is firing on all cylinders again, he doesn't need Steven's help to work out why: "You thought I was tryin' to ditch you?"

Jen shrugs, trying to look nonchalant. "I mean...some people do, yeah."

Jake slides back into his seat and shakes his head. "Por dios, some people out there are just loco."

*

So things are starting to get handsy, and Jake is intimating as to how he won't be in town long but he's got a respectable hotel for the duration, when Jen puts a finger to his lips.

She turns to the audience. "Okay, this one isn't in the pairing tags either -- but come on, we're twenty-plus chapters in with no action for Jake, and if it's doing slow-burn Full Moon polycule then it's going real hard on the slow part. Doesn't he deserve a fun hookup? I know I deserve a fun hookup! Only protagonist in this franchise who's been stuck with a whole subplot about how sad my dating life is. What's up with that?"

She goes back to Jake -- who's holding perfectly still, not reacting to any of this -- then pauses to give you guys a quick clarification:

"By the way, I know this section's in his POV, but he's not hearing this. It's a fourth-wall break thing. Don't think about it too hard."

The only part Jake hears is:

"Okay, hot stuff, real talk. How much are you hoping to end up in bed with She-Hulk?"

"Sorta depends," says Jake. "Is la verdezota her own lady, who's gotta give out her own invitations if a guy wants to get lucky with her?"

"Noooo, it's not like that with me. I'm still the same personality and everything, I just get taller. And greener. And, uh...higher-stamina. If you know what I mean."

Jake grins. "Yeah? I'm likin' the sound of that."

Jen chews on the inside of her cheek. "Some guys say they'll like it, but then when it actually happens, they get all weird and insecure when it turns out I'm stronger than them."

"Some guys are cowards," shrugs Jake. "Tell me somethin' I don't know."

"Other guys think it's super hot to spend a night with She-Hulk, but they get weird when the superpowers run down and it's just little old me underneath."

Jake leans on the bar and rests his chin on his palm. The crowd in here has died down over the past hour -- he's pretty sure he caught Jen's friends leaving a while back -- so he can keep it pretty quiet and not worry about being heard. "Look, señorita, are you tryin' to say you don't want to Hulk out tonight? Because, I mean...gettin' it on with a cute, smart, funny lawyer sure does sound like a hardship and all, but, I volunteer as tribute."

"Oooh...!" Jen clenches her fists, vibrating in frustration -- Jake doesn't think it's directed at him, but shuts his mouth anyway, just in case. "I'm saying -- I do want to, but if this gets hot enough there's a real chance I might need to de-Hulk to avoid breaking some of the furniture and/or your bones, and if that's gonna screw up my hot one-night stand I might as well not risk it! Okay?"

"...I think I'm followin', yeah."

Jake takes a second to listen to the inside of his head. All quiet. (Steven noped out the first time Jen started touching their thigh.)

Lowering his voice a bit more, he says, "Any chance I could get some of that lawyer confidentiality I hear so much about?"

Jen's brow furrows. "...Maybe. You got a dollar?"

"Uh..." Jake digs through his pockets. Phone. Lighter. Swiss army knife. Crinkly packet of airplane pretzels. Okay, here's the wallet. A couple British pounds. Fake driver's license (not like Jake couldn't pass a driving test, this was just easier than faking all the paperwork to get his own name on it). Ticket stubs from some movie Steven saw with Layla. A couple Egyptian pounds. Aha! "Here."

Jen takes the bill. "Cool. You have officially paid me a retainer fee for legal advice, and any information you give me is protected by attorney-client privilege."

"Great. And...just to be real clear...this means you don't add anythin' to anyone else's database about me without permission, right?"

That earns him a long, shrewd, calculating look. Whatever Jen's thinking, though, she doesn't let on the details -- just folds the dollar into neat little rectangles and says, "Yeah. It does."

"Cool." Jake puts a hand on her knee.

Shielded from view by the bar, only for his eyes and Jen's, he summons a fraction of the suit. Just one glove. Up to the elbow. Long enough for Jen to get a clear look at the crescent motif, then away it goes.

"Comes with super healing," whispers Jake in her ear. "You can break all my bones, an' they'll go right back together. It's not a kink or anything, so please try not to do that, ay? But you could."

This close, he can feel the shiver as it runs up her spine. "You know...I've got really sturdy furniture back at my place."

*

There's no hot guy in her bed when Jen wakes up...but his pants are still hanging off the bureau where she threw them, and there's a whisper of activity coming from the attached bath.

She rolls over and grins up at the viewers. "Oh yeah, that was a good night. Everyone out there who commented 'let Jake smash', you are geniuses with excellent taste. And I say that as the local authority on smashing. Okay, gonna go say good morning! If there's another section break, you can assume I talked him into round two."

With that, Jen clambers out of bed, pulls on a soft T-shirt, and goes to investigate the whispers.

The door is partway open; she gets a sliver of Jake at the sink, leaning toward the mirror and murmuring what sounds like "C'mon, mate, wake up, you can't leave me to field this one, and this thing is so itchy..."

"Hey, hot stuff," says Jen, sidling in behind him. "What do you want for breakfast?"

Jake yelps, shoots backward into the shower, grabs two crinkly fistfuls of the shell-patterned curtain, and holds it so it covers his mostly-naked body from the neck down.

"Uh," says Jen.

"Hi," stammers Jake. "Well. Um. No getting out of this one, is there."

"You're...allowed to leave, you know that, right?" says Jen carefully. "What's with the accent?"

"This is how I --" Jake breaks off, takes a deep breath, drags one hand through his hair, and starts over. "Look...you know how your cousin's got an Other Guy?"

"He's pretty famous for it, yeah."

"Well, the charming rogue you brought home last night also has an Other Guy. Only, instead of being big and green and having surprising insight for my limited vocabulary, I'm cute and British and get extremely nervous around attractive people who aren't wearing very much."

"...huh."

"Can the whole 'attorney-client privilege' bit apply to both of us?" asks Not-Jake hopefully.

"Pretty sure there's not an existing legal precedent for it," says Jen, "but if it ever goes to court, I will zealously argue that it should.... Wait. You were listening in on that?"

Not gonna lie, she isn't super enthusiastic about the idea of having a surprise secret voyeur for her whole date. Although maybe Jake doesn't know about his Other Guy...?

"He left me a note about it." Not-Jake points to the countertop by the sink, where his/their phone is sitting between Jen's hair gel and She-Hulk's hair gel. "I, um, was around a bit at the start of the evening, but I clocked out long before any funny business started. Honest."

...which probably means he has no idea what the layout of her apartment is, huh.

"Ooo-kay!" Jen punctuates this next bit with twin finger-pointing gestures: "How about, you stay here while I grab some clothes, then you go out there and pick up your clothes while I get dressed in another room, and then we regroup in the kitchen and talk over breakfast?"

"Oh! Sounds good. Yes, please."

So Jen sidles back out of the bathroom, and does some quick rifling through her closet.

"Look," she tells the readers over her shoulder, "if this is a really elaborate setup to explain why he's never going to call again -- well, at least he's doing something entertaining instead of just ghosting me. And if it's true? Won't be the weirdest thing I've seen. Heck, not even the weirdest I've seen in the past week."

She tosses something nice, semi-professional, and mostly-hidden-spandex over her arm.

"Obviously you folks all know it's true. You're big fans of the franchise -- it's why you're here! And who wouldn't be?" She shoots an admiring look at the (now-closed) bathroom door. "I mean, playing multiple identical characters, who are all distinct, well-rounded, and able to have seamless chemistry when interacting with each other...? That takes talent. My gosh, this guy has to be the second-biggest talent the MCU has ever landed."

*

Jen doesn't have much in the way of vegan options, but she's not offended when Steven turns down pancakes, and there's fruit salad and tea and a tiny carton of almond milk that's still half-full, so it works out all right.

"So, hey -- you didn't come out because I did something to make Jake mad, or upset or anything, right?" asks Jen hopefully, sitting across from him at her kitchen island and pouring extra blueberries on her pancakes.

"No! Nothing like that." Steven picks his words carefully, talking around the existence of Marc: "I'm not suppressing him or anything, and he's not avoiding you on purpose, he's just...sort of asleep? Think you might have, ah, worn him out with the incredibly vigorous sex."

Jen points an accusatory fork at him. "Thought you weren't around for that part."

Steven raises his eyebrows. "The bed frame was already broken when you came home, was it?"

"...okay, got me there."

To Steven's immense relief, she doesn't press the point.

Instead, she says, "So, hey, I checked on your entry in the Avengers database. There's one entry for Moon Knight, but it says there are multiple people using the alias. I'm still not adding anything without permission, I'm just curious -- is one of them Jake, and one of them you?"

Steven flushes. "I plead the fifth!"

"The Fifth Amendment is about the right to avoid self-incrimination under oath. It doesn't just mean you don't want to talk about something."

"Well, I plead whatever number it is when you don't want to talk about something," says Steven stubbornly, and pops an entire strawberry in his mouth so he can't say anything for a while.

"All right, all right." Jen spears herself another forkful of pancakes. "Would you like to read your entry in the Avengers database?"

"--mwugh?"

"I still only have the baby level of access. And I can't let you log in with my credentials and wander around the live entries. But since this one is your file, I would say I'm on solid ethical ground to download a copy onto a thumb drive and let you walk away with it. And if there's anything you did want updated...? I could contact them, as your lawyer, and try to get it done."

Steven swallows the strawberry so hard he nearly chokes on it. "Yes! Oh my days, yes, please. I would love that. I -- we all would."

Chapter Text

The meeting spot turns out to be a bar where they don't speak a lot of English. Bucky picks the least-miserable-looking patron, and mimes his way through "I'll have what he's having."

Doesn't really matter what he gets anyway -- it's not like anything short of paint thinner affects him now. He works it over slowly while he waits for a "here's the address of the rooftop I'm ominously lurking on" follow-up text.

What he gets instead is a guy with a cap pulled low over his eyes taking the next seat and saying, "Hey. Throw some darts with me."

That's a face Bucky knows. Though he's only seen it in person once.

"Sure," he says, taking in Orthodox Moon Knight's new outfit. Cargo pants. Lightweight jacket with lots of pockets. Ball cap with a Cubs logo. Probably not a new variation on the shapeshifting suit -- too much color, not enough obvious moon symbols. "I guess we're not in a hurry to go anywhere?"

"Don't know about you, but I'm not."

Bucky nods. So they're killing time, for some reason. Maybe there's a hostile outside the bar, and they're sitting tight until one of the other Moon Knights can show up and take care of it. Maybe there's some kind of magic ritual that they can't kickstart until the moon rises. Maybe...any one of a million other weird scenarios he can think up. "You want me to play with my off hand? Make it a little fairer?"

The other guy snorts. "Again, this is darts. With me. You need every advantage you can get."

*

Several rounds in, Casual Moon Knight breaks the silence: "You wanna tell me what an 'identity emergency' is?"

"Uh," says Bucky. "Kind of a generic phrase. You got some context for that?"

"We -- all the Moon Knights -- got a look at our file in the Avengers database. A redacted version, but still."

"...I don't look at those a whole lot myself."

"Really? Because a lot of the details list you as the source. Like, a lot."

"If it might be relevant to Avengers missions, I put it in a report, yeah." Bucky throws another dart; it hits the bullseye. "There's three of you, all with slightly different power sets -- and last I knew, me and Sam were the only ones who've worked directly with all three. The details add up. Even when you take out everything that's just personal or gossipy...which, to be clear, we do. Something in particular you're not happy we left in?"

"I'm trying to figure that out!" exclaims Plainclothes Moon Knight. "The file doesn't have our direct contact info, that's good -- it lists people who do have our contact info, that's fine -- then there's a list of contacts for something called an 'identity emergency'. First entry after the other Moon Knights was our -- was my wife -- and then you, and then Wilson."

He throws a dart of his own, knocking Bucky's out of place. 

"And I know none of us ever filled out an emergency-contact form. So I'm trying to figure out how this happened. So -- what the hell is it?"

"Oh. Right. That."

Bucky makes a show out of testing the weight of his next dart.

"It's...exactly what it sounds like. Emergency situation where you need to know who someone really is. And where that's not general public knowledge already."

"Like what? As long as you have a way to contact me, who cares if you have a wallet name to go with it?"

"What if you -- and your wife, at the same time -- get hit with an amnesia spell?" demands Bucky. "What if your moon god picks a fight with a god of memories, who decides to screw with your brains to get to him? What if you get kidnapped by a bunch of evil scientists with mind-wiping programs, and you can't fight it on your own, you need someone who can get in your face and look you in the eye and say I know you're still in there, Buck, snap out of it--"

He flings the dart, completely forgetting to hold back.

It slams into the board so hard it cracks the surface, and sends a rattle through the whole wall behind it.

Bucky locks all his joints, and makes himself take deep breaths.

Undercover Moon Knight sidles up in his peripheral vision, at enough of a distance that it doesn't set off Bucky's startle response. Much. "Sit," he says in a clipped voice, jerking his head toward a booth in the corner.

Bucky sits.

Part of him even remembers to bring what's left of his drink.

*

Plainclothes' Arabic, as he passes the bartender a roll of bills way too hefty for the drink he's ordering, is low, fluent, and derisive. From context, Bucky guesses it means something like "buy yourselves a dartboard that doesn't suck."

By the time he circles back around, holding a mug of something vivid orange and thick-enough for a garnish of nuts to float on the surface, Bucky has managed to calm himself down. More or less.

"...okay," says the man at last. "I appreciate why the Avengers would have...contingency plans...for amnesia."

"No kidding."

"But it's not...you don't need to worry about that with us. I don't think. Any of the Moon Knights. Our -- our brains are -- they're built a little different."

"Yeah, everyone thinks they'd be different," says Bucky bitterly.

"I don't -- I'm not saying like I'm too smart for it, or my willpower is too strong, or whatever kalam farigh, okay? It's another dumb mysterious moon thing. 'Everyone' doesn't have that."

"Okay, granted -- for all I know, the power of a patron moon god might've helped against my evil brainwashers," admits Bucky. "But come on. You think you're the most mysterious thing the universe can cough up?"

"...maybe not."

"Well then."

Deprived of darts, Plainclothes picks up a coaster and fiddles with that instead. "What about the rest of it? Why do you think you know who I am?"

Bucky could just cut to the chase and say the guy's name...but he has a feeling Spector wants to know the details.

"Me and Sam did some research. Didn't bring anybody else in on it," he says instead. "He's got access to military databases, he looks people up pretty regularly -- nobody had any reason to get suspicious about him checking on former US Marines."

"You just looked through every Marine until you saw a familiar face?"

"Nah, we filtered the search a little first. Some points we knew, some we had a pretty good guess about."

"Like...?"

Bucky takes a deep breath, and starts counting off points on his fingers. "Male, brown hair, brown eyes, between five-eight and five-eleven, born in the 1980's, Hispanic, Jewish, with documented mental health issues. We were all set to change some of those and try again if you didn't pop up, but, well. Khonshu always look for Avatars with spooky last names? Or did he just get lucky?"

Spector's eyes flicker to one side, like he's remembering something. (Or listening to someone, though Bucky can't see any signs of a microphone hidden in the Cubs cap.)

His furrowed brows fly upward -- then he buries his head in his hands, fingers digging under the band of the hat to pull at his curls.

He's breathing harder, Bucky can hear it. Pulse probably going faster, too.

"I can grab some water, if you want," says Bucky quietly. "Or another drink. Or two."

Spector shakes his head, holding up a finger for Bucky to wait. Little bits of the suit start to materialize over his clothes -- the Reform Moon Knight version, dining gloves one moment, formal vest the next. Normal enough. Anyone who didn't catch the magic transformation would clock it as "eccentric fashion sense" before "magic vigilante armor."

It smooths out his shaky lung function, he settles into five-five-seven deep breaths pretty quickly. At the same time, the suit itself gets jittery: the gold of Orthodox's armor glints for a couple seconds...then it softens back into Reform's tie...his hands are wrapped in the black of Dark Mode's gloves...until finally it all vanishes back into his everyday clothes.

"Sorry about that," he says, pushing the ball cap back on his head and giving the bar around them a quick once-over. Nobody's sitting too close, and if any of them noticed the magical wardrobe change, they're too discreet to show it. "Thing's pretty good for nausea, y'know?"

"Sounds handy."

"Like you wouldn't believe. It does hangovers too." Spector folds his arms and leans forward on his elbows -- smooth and casual, you'd never guess he was just fighting off a panic attack. "Okay, Barnes, real talk. How'd you work out Hispanic?"

"Saw your face, made an educated guess. Would've tried Middle Eastern next."

"How'd you work out Jewish?"

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Remember the mission when I got that gunk in my arm, and Sam finally convinced me I couldn't just flex it off, I should try to quit moving the thing until I could stop in Wakanda for a tune-up? None of the goyim who found out about that wished me refuah shleimah."

Spector groans. "Yeah, that would fuckin' do it, huh."

When he doesn't spin up the next question right away, Bucky asks, "Feel free not to answer, but...are all three of you Jewish?" He's been sorta wondering if their patron deity has a fetish, or something.

"Eh." Grimacing, Spector does a sorta-kinda gesture with one hand. "I am, but I've got this guilt complex about the 'in service of a whole other God' thing, so I don't like talkin' about it. Reform thinks he isn't...but his, ah, parentage is kinda..." He snaps his fingers a couple times, searching for the word. "Ambiguous. So the subject's a little sensitive, ay? He did grow up around a bunch of us, though, that's how he gets your jokes. And Dark Mode is. Nice an' simple. No guilt about it for that guy."

He leans in, lowering his voice:

"Don't let on I'm jealous, or he will be a smug asshole about it forever."

"He won't hear it from me. I swear."

"Good." Spector laces his hands together and taps his index fingers against his chin. "You ID'd any of the others yet?"

"Have we ID'd...the other two Moon Knights? No." Under Spector's piercing look, Bucky adds, a little sheepishly, "Marriage records are public."

"...Right. Yeah. Should've guessed."

Spector takes a gulp of his mostly-neglected drink. He makes a face, like he ordered the wrong flavor by accident, but smooths it over quick.

"Once you had those two names...did you go lookin' us up anywhere else?"

"A few places, sure." Mostly to dig into Spector's and/or El-Faouly's known associates, because it was the only lead they had on Moon Knight #2 and #3 candidates. Didn't go anywhere. All the names they found either didn't seem likely, or turned out to be aliases -- either for Spector himself, or for the associates they'd already checked.

"There's reports about me floating around, is the thing," says Spector grimly. "And, look -- some of them are absolutely not true, ay? But. Some of them are."

"Listen...if you feel like walking me through your Interpol file and pointing out who you did or didn't really take out, we can pencil in a time to do that," says Bucky carefully. "But me and Sam aren't the cops, okay? We aren't reporting you to anyone. We're definitely not turning you in. We're going with the assumption that you're one of the good guys now -- it's been working out so far."

"Appreciate it."

"...besides," adds Bucky, "there are way more reports out there about me. And most of mine are true."

Spector takes a sip of his drink. Longer and slower, this time, like he's actually savoring it. Maybe it needs time to...steep, or something? Before the taste comes out right.

"You were mind-wiped by evil scientists," he says, looking away. "Those don't count."

"Well." Bucky swirls what's left of his own drink, which is mostly water with a few struggling ice chips by now. "I...might have taken up a few solo projects."

"...Really?"

"After I got un-Blipped, and then Steve was gone..." Bucky shrugs. "Had a lot of time on my hands. And a list of people I knew got into power because the Winter Soldier murdered their opposition. And this did not come up in my court-mandated therapy sessions, so, there you go -- now if we ever try to use our knowledge against you, that's something you can hold over my head right back."

"Huh." Spector takes a deep breath, then says in a rush, "Look, if -- if you ever find a report that accuses me of murdering my father-in-law? I didn't do that one."

"Got it."

Spector slumps back against the wall of the booth, either relaxed or exhausted. Maybe both.

Bucky drains his glass.

"Can you believe," says Spector after a minute, "certain people were getting their hopes up about me having a normal friendship?"

It doesn't go over Bucky's head how that didn't get qualified with work friendship. He tries not to smile too hard. "Ah, what do either of us know from normal?" 

The other man raises his glass and tips it wordlessly in Bucky's direction.

"So...am I right in thinking there's not actually a mission today?" adds Bucky. "You just wanted to have this conversation in a country where, if it went south and you had to ditch me, I'd be held back by the language barrier."

"...Maybe," says Spector. "Is there a language barrier, on you in Egypt? Or should I have gone with Spain?"

"Nah, you nailed it. The evil scientists uploaded some kind of Arabic into the Winter Soldier's head, but I guess it's not the local one."

"What did they give you, Modern Standard?"

"Most of the targets I've been able to retroactively ID were in the Persian Gulf, so...probably whichever version would be most useful for that."

"Khaliji, then," estimates Spector. "Probably wouldn't take too long to pick up Masri, then, if you wanted to? And, hey, look on the bright side! At least it's not Darija."

Okay, now Bucky's just grinning. "Man, do you have to work to be this much of a nerd, or does it just come natural?"

*

Bucky didn't bring backup on this one. Partly because Spector asked him to come alone; partly because most of the people he'd ask are military, either Wakandan or American, and they do try not to run vigilante ops on foreign soil.

Spector, though, brought a ride. And he asks if Bucky wants to go for a spin.

Which is how Bucky ends up in the back seat of a cutting-edge Stark Industries hoverjet at 30,000 feet, while Jean-Paul Duchamp -- the most common "known associate" in Spector's files, the one they tried hardest to match with any of the other known Moon Knights -- puts it through twists and dives with such bone-crushing speed that Spector full-on summoned the suit for it, just in case.

"So, ah -- how much are you guys willing to put non-Avengers in the database?" asks Spector, leaning over the headrest of the passenger seat to address Bucky.

His hood and cowl are down. Honestly, it's kinda nice, getting to see his face make actual expressions.

"Because if you ever need someone to help me fight brainwashing by saying 'Marc, this isn't you, snap out of it'...Frenchie here would be one of your best bets." He turns to Duchamp. "If that's, uh, something you're okay with being on call for?"

"Well, now, that depends!" says Duchamp, settling the aircraft into a mostly-upright cruise. "What is the compensation for defeating a supervillain these days?"

Bucky winces, because if this guy would really refuse to save Spector without a payout, what kind of friend is that? But doesn't say anything, because he knows how Sam helped save half the life in the universe and still had to grovel at the loan office afterward, so maybe more of them should be pushing for a salary. 

"Excuse you! Who got you hooked up with this free cutting-edge hoverjet, huh?" demands Spector. "If anything, you owe them."

"There are only so many edges it cuts!" counters Duchamp. "If I have any chance of negotiating my very own spacecraft, do you think I will not take it?"

"Unless they also give you a lifetime supply of rocket fuel, you couldn't afford a spaceship."

"Ah! You forget the incomparable prices I would be able to charge passengers! Of course this does not include you, mon ami... or your lovely wife...or, ah..." He nods back at Bucky. "How much does Monsieur Hiver know of your...companions?"

"He knows there's...a boyfriend, and one Other Guy," says Spector. "Met both of them in the field. No real names, no contact info, and we're not doing casual hangouts with the whole group."

Duchamp nods wisely. "Or perhaps...not doing casual hangouts...yet?"

"Maybe someday!" says Bucky. "First, let's get to the point where your buddy doesn't think he needs an elaborate cover story to hang out with me."

Chapter Text

It takes three security guards to pull Marc off the Mystery Attacker. And, for the record, he only let them because Steven was in the back of his head going Marc please no, please don't get us kicked out of another museum, please, Marc, please--

So he lets himself be wrangled, and self-soothes by counting up all the obvious openings the guards leave that he isn't taking, and says, all business, "It was self-defense, officers. They jumped me."

"Self-defense?" echoes the shortest of the guards. "She's fifteen. And probably about forty kilos soaking wet."

"Not fifteen," says the Mystery Attacker sullenly.

The weight estimate looks about right, though. She's a skinny teenager, with short strawberry-blonde hair, wearing a bunch of layers -- an old-fashioned cardigan, a men's button-down, a slice of teal at the collar from something else underneath. Marc scans all the layers for hidden weapons. (Steven has a tamer assessment of the androgynous, form-obscuring style: the kid might not be a she, either.)

"Okay, I didn't know I was being jumped by a kid," says Marc, and leans on Steven for intel on whether London is a good place to pull the "veteran with PTSD" card.

Feet pound on the tiled floor as a new guy weaves through the glass-walled meteorite exhibits to join them. Floppy jet-black curls, neatly-trimmed facial hair (Jake, also on high-alert since they got jumped, mentally flags it as hashtag beard goals), lugging a messenger bag full of enough books and papers that he might be able to out-research Steven. "What's going on? Sprite! Are you okay?"

"Are you with the young lady, sir?" asks Shortest. Him and the tallest guard are still holding Marc back.

"Yes! Yeah. Yes," pants the new guy. "I'm her -- I'm--"

He stutters, blatantly nervous, over how to end the sentence. Marc and company could probably give him a few lessons in "rehearsing your cover story."

"Do not say dad," warns the teenager. "I'm not calling you Dad."

...oh, it's just a messy family thing. Never mind.

"Right. Sorry," says Not Dad, and gives it another shot. "I'm her mother's boyfriend. And Mum's out of town, so I am, technically, in charge. Trying not to push my luck. What happened?"

"Self-defense," repeats Marc.

Hold on, I think that's what's-his-face, thinks Steven. From the talk last month? Near Eastern artifacts?

"Found this man pinnin' 'er against a display case," says Tallest. "Of course we're escortin' 'im out of 'ere, straight away. So sorry for any distress."

"Hold on a second," says Not Dad, Possibly What's-His-Face. "Sprite? Was he defending himself?"

"...okay, so maybe I made the first move," admits Sprite, sticking her hands in her pockets and looking at the floor.

The grips holding Marc in place start to relax. One quick twist, he could break the hold and be halfway to the exit before they knew what was happening. He doesn't, but he could.

The kid is still talking: "But you didn't hear what he was saying!"

All three headmates start running back through what they were talking about when they got tackled. They were slipping, not being too careful about keeping the conversation in their heads, but it wasn't like they were going over assassination plans...

Tallest's hold on Marc tightens again. "Was 'e being inappropriate towards you?"

"Inappropriate?" echoes Marc incredulously. "With some thirteen-year-old?!"

"Not thirteen!" snaps Sprite.

Dane Whitman! bursts out Steven.

Marc channels Steven's best harmless-and-appealing look for Not Dad, Probably Dane Whitman, Marc Wouldn't Know Because He Didn't Watch The Talk. "Look -- I talk to myself sometimes. It's pretty eccentric, I get it. But it's not dangerous. Usually the worst I get for it is funny looks."

Sprite aims her own pleading look at Probably Whitman. With the soft baby face and the big eyes, she's way better at it. "He was talking about Mom's friends from college."

This incredibly non-dramatic line obviously means something to Not Dad. His eyes widen, his newly-suspicious focus darts between Sprite and Marc, while Marc tries to remember why that phrase rings a bell...

Jake pushes him a memory: Raj Kingo Deva, secretly-immortal sex symbol of multiple Bollywood generations, telling them the code for "this call is from an important person I don't want my mortal PAs to blow off."

But they weren't talking about Bollywood when Sprite tackled them.

They're standing in a gallery with a mineralogy exhibit. The kid grabbed them in front of a display of lunar meteorites. They were talking about visiting the Moon, realizing they were off-planet at the exact time when the new islands appeared in the Indian Ocean...the ones shaped like a set of impossibly-huge fingers, trying to claw their way through the Earth's crust from the inside...

Avatar of somebody that totally outranks the "god" tier...

Oh, hell no.

Kingo didn't even go MIA until a few weeks later. They had figured it was his regular palate-cleansing break between generations. Give it a decade or so, and his "long-lost son" would show up at a film audition and start breaking hearts all over again.

But what if--?

Marc is all set to keep cool, play dumb, and slink out of this ASAP.

Jake shoves his way to the front and says, "Your mom 'leave town' on the 18th?"

Sprite lunges, fast enough that if she was trying to punch him, the guards couldn't have done squat -- he whips out of their hold, skids backward, and blocks -- but she keeps her fist drawn-back and ready as she yells, "What happened to them?!"

"Hey, whoa! Everyone take a deep breath!" says Probably Whitman, squeezing forward and getting one arm between Sprite and Jake. To the baffled guards -- who visibly can't figure out who they're guarding from who anymore -- he says under his breath, "Look, full disclosure, okay...her mum's a wizard. There's some kind of wizard nonsense going on here."

(Either his girlfriend wasn't nearly as open about her origins as Kingo was...or Whitman's not as bad as cover stories as Marc thought.)

To Jake, he adds a question: gentle, polite, in a language none of them know.

Sounds like the one they were reconstructing in the lecture, thinks Steven. 'Course, if he's immortal too, maybe he just remembers it?...Jake, come on mate, this is way out of our depth. Ease back and let Marc talk us out of it.

There's a knotty tangle of emotions coming from Jake that Marc can't even guess how to unravel...but to Marc's surprise, he lets Steven pull him gently away from the body, knots and all.

Marc unfolds their clenched fists into shaky open palms. "Didn't catch that, sorry," he says in English -- then switches to his Egyptian Arabic and adds, "I'm just a random human. I met one of them, once. That's all I know about it."

It's Whitman's turn to look as blank as Marc felt a second ago.

Sprite ducks under the man's outstretched arm, and says, in lyrical Quranic Arabic, "If you are lying, you cannot begin to imagine the forces of madness and destruction I will bring down on you."

Ooh.

Marc nods, and says a simple English "Yes, ma'am."

To the guards, Sprite says imperiously, "There will be no charges. You may show him to the door."

The completely-baffled humans turn to Whitman, who shrugs. "What she said."

*

Once they get out of the building, Marc keeps quiet, and spends some time on some basic counter-surveillance dodging. Just in case.

"You are not being followed, Marc Spector," intones Khonshu, joining them as they step off the second bus.

"Thanks." Marc takes out his earpiece, the one with the fake getting-a-call light, and fumbles it on. "Everyone okay in there?"

Think so, reports Steven. Bloody hell, that girl was really not fifteen, was she?

Still pretty amateur for an immortal, adds Jake. He's shaken, but he hides it pretty well. Threatenin' us with forces of madness and destruction? Really? Around our head, that's what we call Thursday.

Chapter Text

Kensington Gardens isn't much on the "gardens" part, as far as Marc's concerned. It's just a big park. Mostly grass and trees. Sometimes an informative plaque, or a weird little monument.

Probably a good thing it's boring, though -- there's nothing to distract Steven from a bit of speed-research on their phone.

"Sylvia Sersi," he announces in no time at all, holding up the screen. "Worked at the museum with Whitman. They're in Facebook photos together. Hasn't been seen since the 18th. There was a missing-persons report, but it got closed when, apparently, her family said she went on 'an impromptu trip with some friends from college'."

Khonshu leans over their shoulder, the tip of his beak almost touching the glass.

"Perhaps she was one of them," he intones, once Steven zooms in so the photo of Sersi fills the whole screen. "There were only ten on this planet, and they do not change, but it has been many centuries. I remember every night, not every face."

Steven switches tabs to a publicity photo of Kingo.

"Oh, I remember that one," says Khonshu sourly. "He was at the sealing of Ammit. Competent, but a terrible show-off."

"Don't know any ancient legends about someone called Kingo...but my background in Asian mythology is awfully spotty," murmurs Steven, half to himself, as they wander down a lightly-paved path between some trees and a river. "And he did say it was tacky to let humans think you're a god...oh! Circe! Oh, that settles it, Sersi has absolutely been posin' as a wizard and/or minor deity for thousands of years."

"...so what are they really?" asks Marc. "Not humans. Not gods -- whatever that even means, these days. Powerful aliens? Fancy robots?"

"I never had occasion to look inside one, Marc Spector," rumbles Khonshu. "I do not know if this will translate into any of the mortal languages you speak, but among themselves, they are called..."

He says something that echoes in Marc's skull, makes him stumble like he can suddenly feel the spin of the Earth among the stars.

"Of course we've got the word forever, you silly old bird," says Steven gently. "And they're sort of like Avatars for the rock...monster...thing?"

(It absolutely was a monster. Planets do not just spontaneously grow giant fingers. No matter how many photos of cool exoplanet rock formations Captain Marvel drops off with NASA.)

"Yes."

"Whitman's not a Forever, though."

"Dane Whitman is a human. As ordinary and unremarkable as can be expected."

Jake doesn't take the body, but the others can feel his internal eyeroll. Foolish puny mortals, yadda yadda, we get it.

Marc slides into the front. "What about Sprite? Was she some kind of...mixed-species hybrid? That's why she looks so young, she grows faster than a Forever but slower than a human?"

"The Forevers do not mix. They are beyond such crass things as reproduction," says Khonshu snippily. "Sprite was one of their number. She is as old as the rest, and she has always appeared as she does now. Illusion magic notwithstanding."

The curving path takes them by a statue. Marc doesn't care, and Steven is too focused to notice much of anything...but suddenly Jake yanks on their attention, hard, and Marc finds himself stumbling back to give it a second look.

It's a bronze pillar as tall as their body, shaped like a gnarled tree trunk, with creepy carved figures growing out of it. Standing on top is a bronze little girl, with bobbed hair and a short flowing dress, holding some kind of horn and gesturing confidently across the path like she owns the place.

"Ooh," murmurs Steven.

Khonshu leans over their shoulder. "Is this a human of significance?" he asks (which is good, because it means Marc doesn't have to).

"Peter Pan," says Steven. "A story -- not our oldest one, just one of the more famous ones -- about a child who never grew up."

Either he or Jake pushes the image of a Disney character to the front of their head, and for a moment Marc sees the color scheme overlaid on the statue: green outfit, short reddish hair, soft pink skin on a forever-round face.

Ooh, indeed.

"Everyone except Peter left Neverland, in the end," adds Steven. "But he knew about it. They all had the option to go, and he chose to stay, knowin' it would be just him."

(Marc remembers a golden field, a warm sunset, a soft sense of peace..and shivers. He can't imagine any paradise that would be worth choosing just him.)

"But that can't be what happened here, can it? It must've been a surprise, so they didn't have time to tell her. Maybe they were captured. Maybe they..." Steven sidesteps the 'all got killed' option -- could be to protect Jake's sensitivities, or his own, or both. "...made a daring escape right before getting captured. You think?"

"It is difficult to say."

"Meaning you've got no bloody idea." With a sigh, Steven sets the body back to walking down the path. "Are any of the others still on the planet?"

"None that I am in contact with. Although that proves little."

"Probably aren't. No chance Sprite has any immortal friends left to play her legal guardian, if she's resorted to having one of us puny mortals in the role..."

"That would not need to be a hardship, if the mortal was well-trained." Khonshu hums in contemplation. "Perhaps I should have asked Sersi for lessons."

"Oh, ha ha."

Marc nudges him aside again. "So...if we're gonna look into this, it would be safest to make sure Sprite's busy somewhere else, then have a talk with Whitman?"

Startled silence, both inside his head and out.

Look, the thing is -- Jake is having pretty intense feelings about this, okay? Intense enough that Marc is picking them up. Which is a big deal, given how (a) Jake is usually about as easy-to-read as a brick wall, and (b) Marc has all the emotional insight of one.

And it ties in with this whole theory Marc is working on, right. About how, for most of their collective lives, Jake didn't really have people -- except when he would cover for Marc, and kinda borrow Marc's people. And until recently, he acted like he was fine with that! But now it's changing -- now he has his own connections with Steven, and Frenchie, and even Layla, plus a few people that are effectively Just His -- and he is extremely not-fine about even the smallest threat of losing them.

Kingo wasn't one of Jake's people. Not exactly. But maybe, some day, he could've been.

"Do not be a fool, Marc Spector," orders Khonshu, walking solemnly through an informative plaque. "Whatever conflict is happening among the Forevers, joining it is outside your responsibilities."

"Isn't that what the Ennead said about Ammit?" snaps Marc.

If it isn't their war to fight, so be it. Maybe they can still help somehow. They can make the offer, right? He's got a vague idea that it's their responsibility to offer.

"In the case of Ammit, the Ennead had the ability to solve it. They chose not to," says Khonshu darkly. "There is no such choice when the solution is outside our abilities in the first place."

"Oh, come on, let's at least look into it before we write it off!" cries Marc. "When you gave us our little 'free vacation' on the Moon, did you even bother looking into whether you could stop the giant world-ending monster first?"

...okay, so Jake's not the only one with feelings at play, here.

"No."

"And somebody stopped it! Maybe if you had found them, you could've helped! So don't you feel bad about that now?"

"NO."

"What were you planning to do if it had gone ahead, anyway?" puts in Steven. "Once there was no more Earth, were we meant to just stay on the Moon forever? Would you even keep having the power to protect us there, if there was no more planet for it to be a moon of?"

"...There are many planets with moons in this universe. I would have found a path."

"That is not a plan!" yells Marc. "And, what, you couldn't be bothered to get Layla? Or Frenchie? Maldición, if that was all you had, you should've just left us to die!"

"I would NOT," thunders Khonshu, "leave my Knights to be casualties of the Emergence of a--"

The next word rings Marc's head like a gong, his vision blurring gold and exploding with stars --

-- he fades back in, the details resolving slowly in the world around them.

Trees and grass. Darkening sky. Gloomy paths. Humanoid figures in the distance, either having a firefight in the park or playing Frisbee, it's all too blurry to tell.

I'm back, thinks Marc. Sorry, I don't know...what did I miss?

¿Que? thinks Jake, sounding as bleary as Marc feels.

Mrrgh, adds Steven. If you're here, and he's here, and I'm here...

He reaches, slowly, for the body...

...which trips over nothing, sending them faceplanting into the grass. The pain isn't bad, but it's physical enough to shock them back into body-awareness. (Well, thinks Steven dryly, that's one way to ground ourselves.)

Marc sits up...scans their surroundings...waves along a couple of worried-looking joggers who were slowing down to check on them...finds Khonshu standing at their side, and adjusts his earpiece. "How long were we out?"

"Do you mean, how long were you walking in silence?" asks Khonshu. "And here I had, foolishly, hoped you were using it to contemplate my words."

"So was it one of us walking, just really zoned-out? Or was it...somebody else?"

"I did not look inside your mind to determine that, Marc Spector. I have been informed that I am 'not bloody invited in'."

"Right," mutters Steven. "Well. You're still not, so. Thanks for respecting that."

Khonshu cocks his head, birdlike. "You still wish to investigate the Forevers."

Marc sits back on his hands and looks up at the sky, the first stars coming out against the falling twilight.

Steven is, mentally, cuddled up next to him, close enough for seamless switching as necessary. Jake hovers not much farther back, not trying to switch in, but listening intently. How Marc answers this is...important, to him.

"Yeah," says Marc stubbornly. "I do."

After a long silence, Khonshu says, "Approaching the human first would be safest, yes."

*

Steven lifts the knocker on the row-house door, then holds it frozen in the air.

You can do this, thinks Marc. Layla has eyes on Sprite, they're both halfway across the city -- she's not gonna sucker-punch us again.

"I know." Steven bites his lip. "It's just -- he's going to think I'm a stalker, isn't he?"

We sort of are, says Marc, completely unhelpfully.

You'll be fine. You got a bunch of smart questions to ask about his Near East stuff, adds Jake. That's nerd catnip. He's not gonna be able to resist.

Steven takes a deep breath, bangs the knocker on the door three times, then steps back and hugs his bag. (Yes, he brought research, all right? Nerd security blanket.)

A door slides open.

Not the wooden door of the home, though. Or any of the matching doors that run up and down the street.

No, it's a translucent rectangle that appears out of thin air on the pavement. Dull gold, like smoky glass, or age-yellowed film.

Ohhh, don't like that, thinks Jake. Steven, get outta here.

"Don't you think that's a little pre--"

Foggy black shapes from the far side of the door resolve into...a squad of soldiers, stepping through it.

Human, or at least human-shaped, but wearing armor that neither Marc nor Jake recognizes. One of them holds up a device about the size of a phone, looking between it and Steven.

"Variant identified. Readings show two others," she tells the rest of the squad. "Hunters, fan out and search for the rest."

To Steven, she adds:

"On behalf of the Time Variance Authority, I hereby arrest you for crimes against the Sacred Timeline."

Chapter Text

Having finally made his excuses on the Zoom call, taken out his headphones, shooed the cat out of his lap, and gotten all the way down the stairs...

Dane opens his door.

Instead of a maintenance person, or a door-to-door sales rep, he sees...five soldiers. In beetle-black armor, with orange accents. Using tech like nothing he's seen before to restrain a man in a white mummy suit, holding him frozen mid-punch like an action scene on pause.

Another soldier steps in front of the door, holds up a smartphone (?), looks between his face and the screen, then glares at him from under the brim of her helmet. The metal looks solid enough to shrug off an armor shell.

"Nothing to see here, citizen," she announces. "Move along."

Dane closes his door.

*

"I'm telling you, Captain, there's nobody else to be found."

"So figure out new places to look!" orders the Captain. "Under the ground? On the rooftops? There are invisible people in this part of the Timeline, right? Somebody check for invisible people!"

None of them spare a second thought for Moon Knight. Why should they? The Hunters did something to Marc's costume -- the body inside can still breathe and think and so on, but the clothes won't move. The cape, stopped in time mid-swoosh, holds a beautiful, fluid, gravity-defying shape in midair.

"Look, do we really have to apprehend all the Variants?" asks another of the Hunters. "Anyone we don't bring in will be pruned anyhow, when the reset charge goes off. We can mark down that they pled guilty, right? Same difference."

This doesn't make any sense! thinks Steven. It's taking all the self-restraint he has to keep it internal, not to panic-switch.

Makes perfect sense! counters Jake. They don't know we're all in the same body. Only question is how long they keep lookin' before they get bored and decide to grab who they can get!

I mean the accusation doesn't make sense! cries Steven inside their head. We haven't got time powers! All we did was try to meet Whitman! If he's got time powers, why aren't they arresting him? The Avengers did have time powers of some kind, they restored half the life in the whole bloody universe with time-travel shenanigans, why didn't they get --

Whitman's front door opens again.

...and the man himself charges out, now wielding a giant black sword that has the most rancid vibes Steven has ever felt off an inanimate object, swinging it at one of the Hunters and yelling "Aaaaaahhhhh!" at the top of his lungs.

The Hunter whips around with some kind of baton, blocking the strike. There's a violent clash of energy -- the end of the baton glows vibrant yellow, the glossy black blade seems to suck in the light -- 

-- until the Hunter drops low, spins, and gives Whitman an old-fashioned low-tech kick in the ribs.

He goes flying, crashing into the row of bushes that separates the houses from the sidewalk. The sword flies even farther: slicing clean through a lamppost, embedding itself almost to the hilt in a parked car.

"That wasn't how you hold a sword!" yells Marc.

Steven switches into the body. "But thanks much for trying!"

Whitman struggles to pull himself out of the bushes. "I only just got it!" he yells back. "I don't know what I'm doing!"

Boy oh boy, has Steven ever been there. "If we survive this, you and me should be best friends!"

"Sounds nice!" calls Whitman, stretching out his arm.

Even with the suit in a new form, Steven can't make it un-freeze. Can't turn his head...when something trapped in his peripheral vision starts moving, he can't be sure what it is...or why it looks sort of like the sword moving on its own, wriggling out of the hood of the car all by itself...

The movement shoots back across his field of vision, and, oh, it's exactly what it looks like. This sword does the full Mjolnir.

Steven is watching it so closely, so fascinated, that he doesn't notice the approaching Hunter any more than Whitman does.

Then he's yelling "Look out!"

-- but it's too late, the Hunter is jabbing the glowing-yellow end of his baton into Whitman's back.

The glow spreads in a rush, fizzing with sparks of gold and electric blue --

-- and it eats right through Whitman's form, disappearing his whole body into thin air, as clean and quick as a flame consuming a piece of paper --

Steven screams --

The jet-black blade zooms right through the space Whitman's hand disappeared from.

Marc shoves Steven out of the body, and Jake grabs him to hold him back, before he has a chance to see if the sword does to armored soldiers like it does to lampposts...

"This farce has gone on long enough!"

Khonshu has arrived.

The god stands beside them, twenty feet tall, wearing the golden jewelry and full flowing robes he had on the Moon. He touches his staff to one of Moon Knight's outstretched arms; the healing armor unlocks all at once, leaving their body to collapse to the pavement.

Marc struggles to get back up. All these people need crescent darts to the faces, and they need them ASAP. Before he can throw the first one, though, Khonshu draws a corner of his own cloak -- currently about the size of a circus tarp -- protectively around them.

The Captain looks up, directly at the god's face. "That's two, then, yeah?"

A raven skull nearly as large as the Captain herself comes down in front of her, eyeballing her with a socket big enough to swallow her head. "Little pebbles, you have no comprehension of how many Variants stand in front of you."

"They can see you," breathes Marc.

"They are lucky," thunders Khonshu. "As well as the protector of those who travel by night, I am known as the guardian of travelers through time."

Look, Marc doesn't research this stuff. He's used to gods busting out new powers and backstories he's never heard of. Happens all the time. But the naked shock bleeding off Steven -- on top of the numb shock he's been in since Whitman started to dissolve -- makes Marc yelp, "Since when?"

Khonshu huffs. "It is what the mortals call a 'side gig'."

"We don't need to be guarded by some dusty old deity from on the timeline," says the Captain sharply. "We are under the protection of the Time-Keepers. For all ti--"

"Is that what you think is going on here?"

The drape of cloth around Marc starts to bloom with holes -- more cascades of blue-and-gold sparks, eating into the fabric, revealing multiple Hunters aiming their batons at Khonshu's back --

Khonshu taps the end of his staff against the ground. The damage stops. Rewinds. Until the robes are perfectly whole.

(It's not his usual staff. Instead of being a pole of ancient wood with a weathered crescent on top, it's gold inlaid with rubies, topped with some kind of emblem of leaves and feathered wings. All shining like it was made yesterday -- or like time has never touched it.)

Steven practically falls back into the body, and clings to Khonshu's now-massive calf, its usual wrappings criss-crossed with gold.

"Undo it for Whitman!" he cries, mask disappearing, eyes welling with tears. "Please, they did that to him and he's nothing to do with this, all he did was try to help us, you've got to save him, Khonshu, please--"

A claw-tipped hand rests gently on their head. "Hush, Steven Grant. I have found the Nexus Event. As well as the point that will let me reverse it."

Give the Captain some credit: she's got out her own baton and braced for a fight, though she must have noticed how badly the odds have changed. "Don't be absurd. You can't just reverse a Nexus Event."

"Another detail the 'Time-Keepers' have educated you on, no doubt."

A soft, luminous glow begins to spread from the staff. Not consuming sparks, but a multi-colored radiance, gentle and healing.

"You will not remember this. But it is likely your Master will hear of it," Khonshu intones. "Let this serve as my report to him: I am watching over him, too."

*

*

*

"...There are many planets with moons in this universe. I would have found a path."

"That is not a plan!" yells Marc. "And, what, you couldn't be bothered to get Layla? Or Frenchie? Maldición, if that was all you had, you should've just left us to die!"

Khonshu, who's been keeping pace with them the whole walk, takes two long strides to cut ahead of them...

...and sinks into a crouch on the path, putting himself just below their eye level.

He's got a new staff, Marc realizes. He had the old beat-up one a minute ago, didn't he? This one's all gold and fancy. Got jewels in it and everything.

"Steven Grant," rumbles Khonshu. "Is it not part of your function to stop Marc Spector from saying such things?"

It's unexpected enough that it pulls Steven forward. Marc stays mentally cuddled up next to him, close enough for seamless switching as necessary. Jake hovers not much farther back, not trying to switch in, but listening intently.

"We're tryin' to get away from 'function' talk," says Steven weakly. "But, sort of, yeah."

"I would not leave my Knights to be casualties of...an Emergence. I would not."

"Is that why you didn't tell us what was going on? Thought we'd try and get ourselves killed, if we knew?"

"...in the sense that I thought you would have tried to stop it yourselves: yes."

"Wouldn't have had to do it alone," points out Steven. "We do know a bunch of Earth's mightiest heroes, now, remember? We could've made some calls..."

"In the history of the cosmos, there are no champions who have been known to stop an Emergence," says the god firmly. "Even if such champions existed, there was no time left to 'make calls'. No time to organize a response. No time to plan. My options were: leave the planet immediately, on my own, or leave it immediately in the company of...my favorite humans."

He pauses.

"...and you."

"Oi." Steven swats him on the beak, not hard. "None of that, now."

Jake inches forward, pushing lightly for the front, and the others slide out of his way.

He re-scans the world around them...notes the suspicious side-eye of a dog-walker going by, casually adjusts their earpiece...then says, "Thanks for savin' us, jefe. We woulda been happy not to be dead. Eventually."

Steven pushes a feeling of agreement at him (and nudges Marc, until Marc does too).

"But, listen. If somethin' like that happens again. Grab Frenchie and Layla too, ay?"

"I will." Khonshu cocks his head, birdlike. "...If you, all of you, agree not to investigate the Forevers any further at this time."

Jake tenses.

Steven puts the feeling of a supportive arm around his mental shoulders. Marc adds one on top of Steven's, and thinks, if this is important to you, it's important to us.

Jake rests both their hands on the god's beak, the bone tomb-cold against his palms. "Give us a little more intel. Why not?"

"I am not in a position to say."

"That mean you're also 'not in a position to say' what happened to them?"

"I do not know what happened to them."

"Then how do you know it's not somethin' you want us lookin' into?"

Khonshu sighs. "The interference of a god...or the Avatar of a god...will be taken as a provocation. By...certain forces...which your planet is not yet prepared to fight. If you draw their attention too early, you will be greatly displeased with the results."

Jake squints at him. "You gonna say anything helpful if I ask some follow-up questions about that 'too early' or 'yet'?"

"Continue making friends with Avengers, my Knights," says Khonshu, "and you may learn the answers for yourselves."

Chapter Text

Khonshu is audibly, palpably pained when he admits that, in fact, he needs Steven to handle this one.

Layla could do it...but there's a good chance some of the Egyptian archaeologists will know her name, maybe even her face. If there's any hardcore Moon Knighting and/or Scarlet Scarabing to be done, uncomfortable connections will be made.

Marc or Jake could do it, if Khonshu was leaning over their shoulder the whole time, and all they had to do was repeat the directions he shouted...but Khonshu says his in-person arrival would be "unwelcome." He won't explain why.

Instead, he uses the word "please," and Steven is so impressed that he agrees without any more questions. Can't pass up a chance like that for positive reinforcement, now can you?

Anyway, it turns out the reason for Khonshu's avoidance is that the humans in Rashid are already getting help from Thor.

The actual Thor! Not only can he pick out genuine Asgardian writing on the artifacts, but whenever something heavy needs to be moved around, he's happy to help!

The archaeologists barely even glance at Moon Knight. Even when he's sorting out a particularly tricky translation. And who can blame them?

Steven doesn't mind the lack of attention. Honestly, he's enjoying the view as much as any of them. And when he's got things to say, he does it inside his head -- chatting about how this was the site of one of the most important artifact recoveries in Egyptology history, bloody Ottomans went and used the poor thing as a brick to build a fort with, it's only called the Rosetta stone because the French occupiers couldn't be bothered to pronounce Rashid correctly, not that he's got space to talk because the Brits aren't any better, and, gosh, he's always wanted to visit!

Marc and Jake don't answer back when the god is nearby. They remember King Valkyrie having some level of psychic eavesdropping powers, so for safety they're acting as if other Asgardians can do the same.

Jake hangs pretty close over Steven's shoulder for those moments, though, and sighs happily as Thor walks away. Hell of a view, he thinks. You're lucky we've got the no-gods rule, or I'd be gettin' in your way right about now.

Steven scoffs. If we didn't have the no-gods rule, I would've negotiated my own hall pass for Thor by now.

That gets Marc's attention: Wait, what?

One of the archaeologists calls Steven over to match up some non-standard epithets, giving Steven a lucky reprieve. The others pull back to let him work. (He vaguely wonders whether the phrase "hall pass" is more confusing for Jake, with the uneven gaps in his English, or Marc, with the self-denying tunnel vision about how many people he's attracted to.)

Marc waits for another lull in the work before speaking up again. Okay. I can be cool about this, I'm not gonna make it weird, I swear. Was that just...a fun little throwaway comment? Or is there anyone you do want "hall passes" for?

I don't want you to stress out about it, thinks Steven carefully. Not when it's all long-shot hypotheticals anyway.

...how long are long-shots?

Steven takes a deep breath. If I ever get a real, non-hypothetical chance to score with Pedro Pascal, Charlize Theron, or John Boyega, I've already secured Layla's permission to go for it.

...oh.

Little offended by how quickly you relaxed at that, thinks Steven. (He's joking! Mostly.) Like, 'oh, good, he definitely couldn't pull any of those, nothing to worry about.' Maybe I could pull Pedro Pascal, if I really tried! You don't know!

Sure you could, babe, thinks Marc encouragingly. Dream big.

Steven gives him a mental shove out of the way, and self-soothes with the knowledge that Marc would absolutely not be so calm about the relative hotness of the hall passes Layla had asked for.

*

By moonrise, the archaeologists and their divine assistants have put together two history-book-rewriting revelations, and started outlining five different academic papers about it.

They even ask Steven how he'd like to be credited! (He almost says "gosh, no need for that," until both Jake and Marc give him a mental kick in the pants, and goes with "Reform Moon Knight.")

He's on the verge of slipping off when Thor says, "Friend Moon Knight! May I have a moment alone with you?"

"Oh!" exclaims Steven, struck a little dizzy from the full force of Thor's dazzling smile. "I mean, yes! Of course! It would be an honor, Mighty Thor."

"Please," says Thor, waving the admiration away. "Mighty Thor was my girlfriend. Just call me Thor. How do you feel about rooftops?"

Steven is neutral on rooftops, but they are great for privacy, and the ones that overlook the Nile all have lovely views. Thor, naturally, flies up to one. Steven still hasn't got the damn flying powers, so Marc swaps in for a moment to follow, then lets Steven retake the front once they're sitting side-by-side on a bleached stone roof.

Thor gives him a curious look. "Are you all right?"

"Um, yes. Aces. Why?"

"Your energies...the feelings of spirit that emanate from you...they changed, just now. Along with the outfit. Typical humans, even humans imbued with the power of a god, don't really, uh...do that."

"Oh -- that's a Khonshu-specific thing," says Steven easily. This is another excuse they've been holding in the queue for a while. "He's a moon god, and -- sorry, maybe I shouldn't assume. Have you spent enough continuous time on Earth to notice what our Moon does?"

Thor frowns at the waxing gibbous hanging low over the skyline, then perks up. "Ah, of course! It changes!"

"Exactly!"

"And," adds Thor, with the air of someone who's heard a lot of Astronomy Facts and is proud of himself for remembering this one, "it always keeps one face completely hidden."

Steven grins -- not that Thor can see his mouth, but his glowing eyes crinkle up, at least. "I'm wearing a mask, aren't I?"

"So you are! So you are. Delightful." Thor is outright beaming, until he reins himself in. "I, ah, have not kept up with Asgardian affairs as well as I might have, these past few years. Apologies in advance if I say anything un-diplomatic."

"Oh, gosh, same from me. I only found out recently about how there's some kind of tense history between your lot and ours. Still don't know the details."

"You wouldn't care to," says Thor ruefully. "It's mostly a load of he-smote, she-smote at this point. And I understand Valkyrie accepted a peace offering from...Khonshu's other Avatar?"

"And Taweret's. Yes."

"Right. Taweret's one." The thunder god squints at the sky, like he's trying to work out a math problem in his head. "Is Khonshu... allowed to have two?"

It's a hot night, but Steven shivers. "What do you mean?"

"It's just -- the way I remember the Overvoid gods -- and bear in mind this is from at least a thousand of your years ago, so it might be a touch out of date, but what I remember is -- each of them got one, singular, mortal Avatar. And I don't know if that was a power-limit sort of a thing, where they could overcome it with training...? Or if it was the kind of limit they made up, and then enforced on each other."

"...ah."

"That's why I didn't ask about it in company." A light breeze off the water tousles Thor's perfect waves of blonde hair. "You seemed quite casual, but I figured I'd better not draw attention to it. In case it was the sort of thing that could get you...enforced on."

"Gosh," says Steven, mind racing. "Thank you for the, um, consideration. It was very...considerate of you."

The other two are right up against his back, tense with anxiety, ready for a fight. Steven mentally shushes them. He's got this, he just needs to be left alone so he can put all the pieces in order.

"But it's all right. We're a bit of...a special case. I'll try to explain, but bear in mind that I've only got a human understanding of this, yeah? I might not use words that really capture how it looks from a god's point of view. The English language might not have words for how it looks from your point of view."

"Rest assured, gentle Moon Knight, I am perfectly capable of hearing exactly the right words and still not understanding them," says Thor lightly. "Give it your best shot."

"Right." Steven takes a deep breath, trying not to feel too awed that the god of thunder is personally self-deprecating at him. "The gods of the Ennead have this thing where they can take on different forms. Sometimes with whole different names, even. Depending on when you looked in ancient Egyptian history, one time period might worship a single deity with different aspects, while another would worship each of those aspects as a totally separate being. Knowing they're real, maybe that means humans struggled to understand them...or maybe the gods were fooling around with humans on purpose."

Thor rests his chin in one hand. "Some of us have been known to do that."

...and oh boy, is that topic ever a diplomatic minefield. Between Thor and any humans, really. Steven steers clear of it as fast as possible. "All of which is to say -- the real Khonshu has four aspects. There's the Traveler -- that's what khonsu literally means -- and the Embracer, the Pathfinder, and the Defender. So there can be up to four Avatars that have the right to call themselves the Fist of Khonshu, and it doesn't break any rules, since each one is technically emanating from a different aspect."

"Excellent!" says Thor. "Which one are you? Do you know? Is that polite to ask?"

Steven can't stop himself from bouncing in place -- he's only been thinking about this forever, and it's about as niche a topic as you can get, so he never thought anyone would ask. "The Embracer! That's me."

(He wouldn't mind Defender, but they all take turns being Defender for each other, so it doesn't seem fair to claim that title all to himself. Whereas Marc and Jake would both agree that Steven is the team's champion instigator of cuddles.)

"In fact," he adds -- suddenly daring, especially since Thor has been so kind -- "in the spirit of inter-pantheon cooperation, and the new age of the world, and all that -- would it be all right to -- to offer you the blessings of a hug?"

...Thor's embrace lifts him right off the rooftop.

And that squeeze! Steven just about melts in his arms.

Jake leans into it too, so close that the suit morphs into his for a moment, and Steven absolutely cannot blame him.

Chapter Text

Look, Matt's normal thing is beating up gangsters. Muggers. Armed robbers. Some days, if he's lucky, super-talented ninjas.

He's not used to going up against horrible twisted creatures shaped vaguely like giant dogs, which Moon Knight keeps calling "jackals" for some reason. He's also unnerved by the way Moon Knight keeps filling Matt in on their positions -- the guy shouldn't know Matt is blind, and the snarling monsters aren't exactly subtle.

"You don't have to warn me every time!" he complains, dodging the open jaws of a jackal-monster that charged him from the left, moments after Moon Knight's helpful on your left!

"Hold up," says Moon Knight. "You got some kinda super-sight?"

Oh, dammit, are they invisible? Matt hates getting caught off-guard by invisible things. "Super-hearing!" he says, then, "Behind you!"

Moon Knight must be tracking them with his own magic vision...and he's relying on it so much that he doesn't pay enough attention to his ears, because the monster running at his back knocks him to the pavement before he has a chance to dodge.

Better him than Matt. The whole Moon Knight suit is magic -- it can take a chomp to the neck better than the Daredevil outfit, no matter how good Luke Jacobson's super-fashion-design skills are. Still, Matt spin-kicks his own canine opponent into a fire hydrant, which rattles it long enough for him to run to Moon Knight's aid...

Before he gets there, a giant moving something snakes through the air and punches the monster off Moon Knight.

Matt follows the echo of its shape as it retreats, back to a figure hanging in the air...a person? Human-shaped, but without any of the heat or mechanical sounds that would come with an Iron Man type flying suit.

"Did I get it?" yells the person. Girl's voice. Awfully young.

"Stay out of this, chispitas!" calls Moon Knight back, getting to his feet and crescent-darting his attacker while it's down. "Actual monster fight is no place for a kid! Powers or no powers -- heads-up, on your right --"

Another monster has jumped onto the roof of a car, denting it with a loud metal crumpf that even a sighted person should notice, and launched from there directly at the airborne kid...

It slams directly into an airborne wall. Which was definitely not there a second ago.

"Now put one around el diablo!" says Moon Knight. "Can you do spikes?"

A solid cylinder of mystery substance erupts around Matt, just in time for a monster to slam into it -- then it sprouts a ring of pointed spires, like a bladed death machine in a bad action movie, and the creature lets out an unholy shriek before exploding.

"Somebody want to tell me what's going on?" asks Matt, pressing his glove against the insta-wall. Whatever material it's made of is firm, faceted like crystal, tingly like it's electrified.

The structure is still open at the top, and must be almost a foot thick, judging by the way the kid's boots tap against it when she jumps down onto the rim. "Okay, so, this is really complicated, but I'm, like, sort of a mutant alien genie from another dimension, but only half...?"

"You do magic," interrupts Matt.

"Um. Yeah. Shapeshifting and walls, mostly."

Great. The one thing Matt hates more than invisible things is shapeshifters. It's okay with something like Moon Knight's suit, which mostly just changes texture, and gains/loses the cape sometimes. But things that don't keep a consistent size or shape? The worst.

Moon Knight closes the rest of the distance between them, standing with his back to the fake-crystal barrier, darts at the ready. "All right, chispitas, you two can't see los chacales, but this guy can hear where they're comin' from. If I make sure the rest of 'em come this way, can he direct, and you spike? You mind bein' bait for that, diablo?"

"Better me than the kid."

"Hey, I have a name now!" protests the girl. "A superhero name, even. Call me Ms. Marvel!"

Hang on, Matt's heard some gossip about that moniker going around. "Shouldn't you be in Jersey?"

"I mean, I usually am, yeah -- but there's an AI thing at the convention center -- don't worry, I'm not missing anything cool, it was really my friend who wanted to go, I'm just moral supp--"

"Spike when I jump, Marvelita!" interrupts Moon Knight.

A few seconds later he leaps into the air, a bunch of crystal spikes erupt into the air where he just was, and the jackal-monster that was charging him gets speared into dust.

"He, um, didn't come back down, right?" asks Matt after a moment. He didn't hear it, and there's an extra-distinctive whoosh of air when the crescent cape flares during a touchdown, but so many weird things are going on here that he feels like double-checking.

"No -- well -- not here, at least. They flew off a couple blocks thattaway."

"Cool."

Presumably she's pointing. Matt turns his face toward her, nods like he can see the exact direction she's pointing in, and doesn't try to aim his face that way afterward.

"...Wait, 'they'?"

*

Jake has circled the area a few times with their mooney sense (yes, he is still calling it that), and is bringing the last two jackal-monsters back in the other heroes' direction.

When he hears what they're talking about, he almost forgets to worry about the jackals.

"...not just the different accents," says Daredevil. "If they wear each other's suits and don't talk, the match is almost perfect, but they're different in all kinds of unconscious ways. Breathing patterns. Heartbeat reactions. Body chemistry, even."

"Wait, you have super-smell too?"

"I have all kinds of super-senses. Point is, just because they have the same height and build..."

"And face!" protests Ms. Marvel.

"Whoa, young lady, settle down. Triplets are rare. You could blow their secret identities, giving out something that specific."

"You're not listening! I've seen them talking to each other -- and it's not as triplets, or through any microphone in --"

"Incoming!" yells Jake.

He's deliberately less helpful than usual, so the other two need to put all their concentration on spearing the last couple of mutts, while in the back of his head Marc goes, He's gotta be bluffing. Different body chemistry? He saw us switch a couple times in this fight, and he didn't say anything about us smelling different.

We only swapped in for a couple seconds each, points out Steven. Probably not long enough for our...glands, or organs, or whatever...to completely re-adjust. They're not magic like the suit, they have physical changes to go through...

"Got it!" calls Daredevil.

"Woohoo!" cheers Ms. Marvel from her floating platform, as the last jackal crumbles into dust and her crystal spikes withdraw from around it. "How are we doing, Moon Knight?"

"That was all of 'em!" confirms Jake. "Good job. Can we have a little chat, now? Just you and me."

"I'm guessing you heard some of our conversation," says Daredevil. He's still in an alert, ready-to-fight stance. (Worried there might still be monsters left to fight? Or...worried he might have to fight Jake?) "Don't be angry with the kid, okay? She's not trying to blow your cover."

"Not angry, not offended," says Jake tersely. "Not by her."

He might be a little offended by the fact that this kid is trying to tell an adult something true, something important, and getting brushed off. Even though the brushing-off is working in his favor right now.

"I just gotta talk to her. In private."

"About what?"

"What's it to you?" says Jake. "Maybe I'm another half-mutant-alien-genie, and I wanna welcome her to the family."

Ms. Marvel gasps in excitement. "Wait, are you? Are you really? Because all the ones I've met so far were either evil, or extremely morally-ambiguous--"

"Nah. Sorry, kid. Just messing with el diablo." To the diablo in question, he adds, "Look, you did see her fighting just now, right? I give her any trouble, she can trap me in a spiky cage, and by the time I got out she'd be halfway back to Jersey."

"...fine." Daredevil straightens up, pulls a card from one of his suit's pockets (he has a lot of them, real convenient, Jake would love to talk to his designer), and holds it up with two fingers for Ms. Marvel to take. "Info on the Defenders, in case you need backup in the future."

They have a card? thinks Marc. How come none of us ever got their card?

The Defenders are local to New York, we live in London, Steven reminds him. Anyway, we have a dozen different Avengers in our contacts already -- I think we'll live.

The kid, for her part, is absolutely delighted to have the intel. "Thank you so much!" she chirps. "Uh, can I drop you off on a rooftop or something before we go?"

"No thanks. I get...airsick," says Daredevil. "I'll just go ahead and parkour myself out."

Chapter Text

The convention center has a whole planted-up rooftop, big blocky air conditioners and other industrial things rising out of big blocks of grass. (Like monuments in a sculpture garden, thinks Steven. Like oversized tombstones, counters Marc.)

Ms. Marvel jumps down a series of descending crystal platforms until she's standing on one of the paths that split up the greenery. She has a whole costume of her own now -- bright colors, black domino mask, long scarf that flows artistically behind her as she descends.

Jake, who doesn't see any Keep Off The Grass signs, lands in the middle of it before walking over to join her.

The kid raises her hands and lets out another burst of mauvey-purple crystal...

...which spreads to form a wide shell around them both, arcing closed over their heads, even rising up under their feet.

It's too big and bright and airy to give them a full-on panic attack, but it startles Jake so badly that he and Marc swap a couple times, knees bent and hackles raised. "The hell is this?"

"You...said you wanted to talk in private?" says Ms. Marvel nervously. "I figure, we just teamed up with a guy who has super-hearing, and there's like twenty other superheroes in New York on top of him...also, with a tech convention going on under us, who knows what kind of sensors are running...not that I think anyone specifically is trying to eavesdrop, but if they are, this will probably block them out? Sorry, was that a bad idea?"

"No -- no, it's all right!" says Steven, taking the front and standing them up. "It's quite brilliant, actually. If you could just give a heads-up next time? The surprise cave was a bit...surprising, is all."

"Sure! Of course. Sorry," says the kid again. "So -- the costume has a different look for each of you? That's so cool."

"Aw, thanks, but -- listen, please."

Internally, he adds, She's already seen our face, yeah? And this will go over better if we can emote at her, I think.

With Marc and Jake's tentative permission, he dispels his mask.

"You can't go around talking about this," he says. "Okay? Not to Daredevil, or any other Defenders or Avengers or Guardians or whatever that you happen to run into. For the most part, they do not actually know how crazy we are."

Ms. Marvel looks comically baffled. "...they don't?"

Steven half-chokes on a laugh. Can't tell if it's his, or Jake's, or maybe both.

"Um, uh, that wasn't supposed to be an insult!" flails the girl. "I assume you're reclaiming it as a term of self-description!"

"Somethin' like that," says Jake dryly. "Normally we make it less obvious, ay? You caught us on a bad day."

"Look, here's how it works," adds Marc, slipping back in. "One Moon Knight shows up for any given mission. He's got a distinct voice, and a specific look he prefers for the magic shapeshifting suit, and he never shows his face. Maybe one of the others has to take the body for a moment, but as long as he doesn't talk, it just looks like the outfit switched around a little. If someone else has to take over the whole mission, we have the first guy leave the scene, and a different guy comes back."

Ms. Marvel fidgets with the positioning of her eye mask. (No magic outfit for her, she has to adjust these things by hand.) "Do the Avengers just...not ever wonder, why they never see two of you in the same place at the same time?"

"Oh, they do! Their running theory is, we only have one suit to go around," says Steven brightly. "It explains everything, and it's not even wrong! They just don't know that we also only have one body."

"Ohhhh. Okay! I get how that works."

"You're not the only person who's found out by accident," admits Marc. "And we're not mad about you knowing. But don't spread it around on purpose, okay? ...Please."

"Right! Yes. Got it. Sorry," says Ms. Marvel. "So -- I should treat it like another kind of secret identity? Don't talk about it with other superheroes, and if the topic comes up, stay totally quiet about it?"

"Exactly."

"And -- well -- and you don't think it would be easier to just...tell them?"

"Not if we want 'em to treat us all like people," says Jake. "If we lead with the body-sharing thing, we get people deciding one of us is The Real Guy, and everyone else is an act. Best-case scenario, they think it's a funny act. Worst-case...they don't. Speakin' from experience, here."

Ms. Marvel winces. "Ooh. Yikes. I'm really sorry that happened to you."

Hearing it so cleanly -- plain sympathy, no caveats, no insinuations that maybe they are faking it -- leaves both Marc and Jake dizzy, locked-up, at a loss for what to say.

Steven goes with a simple "Thanks. We appreciate it."

"But...!" adds the girl, standing up straighter, practically glowing with earnestness. (Or...maybe she's just glowing in general. Hard to tell.) "I really don't think the Avengers would be like that, you know? They're the good guys! Heroes support everyone, they stand up for everyone, even people who are a little different -- no, especially people who are a little different!"

"Being the 'good guys' doesn't magically make them perfect or right about everything," points out Steven. "Gosh, just think about the mess when the Avengers couldn't agree on how to respond to the Sokovia Accords." He pauses. "...Are you old enough to remember the Sokovia Accords?"

"Yyyyyes?"

Steven decides, for the sake of not being smacked in the face by his own mortality, he isn't going to ask how old she was when the Accords were passed. "Listen -- there are specific people who have earned our trust, that we've shared the details with on purpose. And we're working our way up to sharing with a few more. But it has to be on our terms, you see? The more control we have over managing our own boundaries, the better."

"Oh! Of course. Makes sense. Healthy boundaries are important."

They can say lines like that in high school now? thinks Jake. Huh. The kids are all right.

Ms. Marvel isn't finished, though: "Is there anything it would help for me to share? Like...I could give people a heads-up that you have trouble with caves!"

Marc takes the body, purely so he can facepalm with both hands. "No! Kid, no. Absolutely do not spread that around either."

"But...if you don't tell people your triggers...how will they know to avoid them?"

Steven switches back in and deepens the facepalm. "Oh my days, you are too precious for words."

Internally, he adds, Look, maybe it would help if she had an example of too much openness blowing up in our faces? Can I tell her about...?

With a tentative go-ahead from the others, he says out loud, "Can I tell you about my first superhero mission?"

"YES!" squeaks Ms. Marvel, jumping in place. She reins herself in a heartbeat later, clears her throat, and adds, in a forced-casual voice, "I mean, uh, yeah. Sure. If you want."

(It's so adorable that Marc and Jake shift from "uneasy and wary" to "awww.")

*

"...and this awful cult-y nutter found out about her, and thought, ooh, a chance to Minority Report huge swaths of the population? Sounds brilliant! Let's bring her back."

"Wait, wait, wait -- was this the Ammitology guy?"

"Um. Yes," says Steven. "You know about it?"

"There was, uh, a documentary? It was on Netflix for a while? I don't know how accurate it was, but the stuff that made it in there seemed pretty bad?"

"Ah, Marvelita, they probably don't know the half of it," sighs Jake. "Those monsters, earlier? Invisible to everyone who's not an Egyptian god's Avatar? Leftover Ammitologist cells summon 'em in packs."

They're on a different rooftop now, in a different part of the city: the kid got hungry, so they tracked down a food truck with falafel wraps. Even though the food is wrapped in tinfoil, Ms. Marvel made them each a sparkly crystal plate to eat over.

"We tried to get in their way, but in spite of our best efforts, they tracked down the tomb where the real Ammit was sealed away," continues Steven. "So Khonshu finally resorted to calling the other Overvoid gods...the ones who had Avatars on Earth, anyway, which was a surprisingly small bunch! They didn't have much patience for Khonshu, and honestly, who can blame them..."

"Rude," huffs Khonshu. (There's a water tower on the roof behind them, held up by a big metal frame, and he's perched on one of the struts.)

Steven ignores him. "But they were all on Team Keep Ammit Sealed. We were all on the same side. So they agree to call in Crazycakes McGenocide..."

"Okay, that time I don't think it was reclaiming the word in a positive sense..."

"It wasn't. And then! He doesn't bat an eye, just tells them..." Steven does his best impression of Harrow, straight-backed and sleepy-eyed, voice oozing with fake sympathy: "...'oh my goodness, you can't trust this man, he talks to himself! And answers to different names at different times! So awful of Khonshu, manipulating a mentally-ill person, poor fellow probably doesn't even know what he's saying.' And the rest of the Avatars went 'yeah, that checks out' and let him go."

Ms. Marvel winces. "Oh nooo."

"Oh yes. We tried to catch up on our own, but by then it was too late. Wasn't forty-eight hours later that Ammit was freed."

"So...the other Avatars realized they were wrong then, didn't they? Did they ever apologize for how unfairly they treated you?"

"Didn't really get the chance," says Steven.

Marc is blunter: "One of the first things he did was summon them back and murder them all. We never saw them again."

"Ooh."

Marc! hisses Steven internally. Less murder talk in front of the teenager!

Does that mean...we shouldn't mention how the Avatars probably thought about their wrongness while they were bleeding out? asks Jake. Because that's always a great pick-me-up when I'm feeling down, but...

Marc gives him the psychic equivalent of an elbow to the ribs. Geez, no, even I know better than to spring that on her.

"There's a good ending, though!" says Steven out loud. "So, all right, the supervillain already knew that two of us shared a body...and he dug up a lot about our triggers -- enough that, when there was a serious risk of us out-fighting him, he was able to talk Orthodox Moon Knight into a severe panic attack..."

Ms. Marvel is on the edge of her seat, wide eyes fixed on them, face frozen halfway through chewing a bite of falafel.

"...but he did not know we had a Third Guy! Our secret weapon." Steven grins, radiating pride. "Vaulted right over the panic attack, swapped into the body, took out the rest of the henchmen, and knocked out the cult leader before he even knew what hit him."

The kid puts down her wrap and full-on applauds.

Jake takes the body again and makes a sweeping bow. "Thank you, thank you! Happy to help."

"You're the guy who did the fight earlier, right? I caught the other two, but what's your name? Or, I mean, how do I refer to you?"

"They call me Dark Mode." Jake winks. "'Cause I'm easy on the eyes."

(That earns a weird shiver from Marc, until Steven gives him an internal swat: He is not flirting with the teenager, Marc, he's being charming. It's a general friend-making skill. We should be taking notes.)

"Oh, that's so cool! You know, when I first started doing superhero stuff, people tried to call me 'Night Light' for a while? That was terrible. Yours is way better," gushes Ms. Marvel. "So, wait, all that means...even though you've let the Avengers know about three of you...there could be even more that you're holding back? So you don't run out of secret weapons?"

Jake just shrugs. "Could be," he says mysteriously. "¿Quién puede decir?"

*

"Nice to get a little appreciation around here," says Jake dryly, as they squeeze onto the New York subway.

They're standing between a man playing a loud video game with lots of explosions, and a woman having an angry conversation with lots of legal words over a Stark earpiece that must cost twice as much as theirs. The other seats feature passengers in a sparkly green suit and wizard hat, a full set of Mets gear complete with face paint, and what looks like a homemade Spider-Man costume. And that's just this one car!

Even talking to themselves, Team Moon Knight would have to work to stand out here. (Fuck, Jake loves this city.)

Hey, that's not fair, protests Marc, keeping it internal anyway.

"Isn't it?" asks Jake out loud.

No! Steven appreciates you plenty.

Steven gives Marc another internal swat, but he's giggling while he does it, and it's all so cute that Jake almost forgets his lingering bitterness.

...Almost. "Weren't exactly callin' me your amazing secret weapon back when that fight went down, though."

Yeah, well. Marc bumps his mental shoulder against Jake's. Back then, he was calling me a parasite who ruins everything I touch. Things change.

Steven loops his arms around both of them, pulling them all together. And thank no-god-in-particular for that.

Chapter Text

They're being tailed. And a crowded boardwalk full of vacationing families is the last place any of them want to start a firefight. Which is how they end up in a crowded arcade, weaving discreetly through aisles of machines that plink and jingle and rattle and buzz...

"Hi, buddy! Long time no see!"

...Steven gets bounced into the driver's seat. Hard! Marc and Jake were holding up well enough against the crowd and the racket, but that voice is one aggravation too far.

Well, fine. He can roll with it. "Hello, Wade," says Steven.

He's seen Deadpool with the mask off, so he doesn't have an awkward reaction to the heavily-scarred face...but this is his first time seeing Wade Wilson in full-on casual clothes. The guy has company, too: a woman with wavy brown hair, a slinky dress, and one of those rainbow lollipops half the size of your head.

"Nessa, baby, this is a co-worker of mine from the old business," Wade tells her. "Gotta love that unlikely coincidence and/or authorial railroading, huh? He goes by different names sometimes...you wanna tell us what to call you now, or are you gonna make me guess?"

"Steven," says Steven. "Just Steven today."

"Ooh, cute accent," says the woman. "Uh, does it help -- whatever you're doing -- if we talk to you right now? Or are we getting in your way?"

That is a gift-wrapped easy out, hisses Jake. Tell 'em to buzz off. Y'know, polite-like.

...no, dammit, she's right, thinks Marc. It does help if we look like we're meeting someone. Steven, I -- I'll swap back, if you want.

"No, no, it's perfectly all right! Happy to chat," says Steven out loud, addressing the whole group. He nods to the row of machines they've ended up next to. "Play a few rounds with me?"

"Sweet!" chirps Wade. "Although, fair warning, this woman is a monster at skee ball. Steven, this is my wife, Vanessa."

Steven does a double-take in the middle of going for a handshake. "Wh -- wife? You're married?"

"Okay, in my defense," deadpans Vanessa, grabbing his hand and squeezing, "he was way hotter when we met. Then he got cancer of the everything, and what was I supposed to do? Dump the cancer guy? Come on."

"That wasn't supposed to be a crack about his looks!" exclaims Steven, over a furious blush. "I swear! It was entirely about his personality."

"It might be a tiny bit about the fact that I hit on him last time we met," says Wade in a stage whisper. More normally, he adds, "Don't worry, baby, he could not have been less interested if he tried. He's taken. I mean extremely, seriously, super-duper taken. And don't worry, Steven, it's all on the up-and-up on my end! Whenever I'm out-of-town, or having a crossover appearance in a different franchise, I have the green light to flirt my little heart out."

"It's embarrassing, honestly." Vanessa hands Wade the lollipop, and crouches to click a token into the skee-ball machine in front of her...then, after giving Steven a quick once-over, to put one in his machine too. Matching sets of heavy balls trundle down the chutes. "This guy will go after anybody with a pulse."

Wade beams. "And some people without one!"

Steven recoils.

"Androids!" yelps Vanessa, now looking actually embarrassed. "He means like androids!"

"Oh, thank god," breathes Steven, who had totally forgotten that was a thing for a second there. (False alarm, he thinks at Jake and Marc, both startled back to full attention by the wave of distress. He's just being quirky again.)

"And aliens, some of them." Vanessa keeps the train of thought going as she hefts one of the skee balls, eyeing her targets. "And, hey, Colossus when he's metal..."

Wade taps her on the shoulder. "They don't know who Colossus is here, baby."

"What? In the US?"

"No, in the MCU! They're gonna fold in the Fox characters eventually, but this fic is all Phase Four, and none of them are scheduled to join the universe until Phase Six. Arguably I'm not on the schedule until Phase Six either, but there's a short on Youtube from a year ago that has me hanging out with Korg, so I think we're counting that. -- Ooh!" He turns to Steven. "Korg! Ever met him?"

"Um," says Steven, a little dizzy. "I don't..."

"CGI alien guy, hangs out with Thor sometimes? All made of rock! Super charming, would totally hit that, and there's definitely no pulse on him."

"I will take your word for it."

Vanessa shushes Wade so she can focus, which means she and Steven get to roll a few balls up their lanes in blessed almost-silence.

...although Wade can't resist the occasional comment hyping her up. Even Steven has to admit, it's pretty cute.

When she wins (handily, it's not even close), Wade starts turning his pockets inside out. "Ooh, we're almost out of tokens. Can I take my turn at the game while you run and grab more?"

"Sure." Vanessa takes her lollipop back, kisses her husband on the cheek (leaving a rainbow-tinted lip print), and heads off.

"Sooooo I wasn't gonna bust this out without checking," murmurs Wade, under the rumble of the next set of skee balls, "but for the record? Nessa would be totally cool with your whole 'secretly three guys in one hot trenchcoat' situation."

"Thank you. For not," says Steven. "Busting it out, I mean. Not that she doesn't seem lovely! But."

"But it's personal? Gotcha. These lips will stay zipped." Wade does the matching gesture in front of his mouth, then grabs the first ball and sends it rolling. "Are the other guys around, can I say hi real quick now, or should I just ask you to pass it on?"

Steven has a quick listen to the inside of his head. Marc and Jake have both pulled back. "I'll pass it on."

They play in parallel silence for a bit. Wade still out-rolls Steven, but not quite as hard as his wife did.

"It's not -- you haven't offended them, or anything," adds Steven awkwardly. "You're not doing anything wrong! And they appreciate the times you've helped me out, they really do. It's just. We don't understand what you're saying at least half the time, and it confuses and stresses us out."

"Nah, it's fine, I get it," says Wade cheerfully. "My crazy doesn't match your crazy."

"...yeah. Pretty much, yeah."

"Don't worry -- with the movie not coming out for a few years, I probably won't be back in this fic anyway. Unless there's a new teaser trailer that's really inspirational! Or a big team-up chapter, where I'll probably just get a funny one-liner. Or maybe some kind of Pride Month special? I'll bring a flag for whatever it is when you're down to bang an alien tree -- as long as it's an adult alien tree, I'm not having impure thoughts about Groot in this continuity if he's still a sapling -- and you'll rep whatever it is when you're mostly into other guys played by the same actor. Tumblr's gotta have a word for that. Doppelsexual? Selfcestual? Solosexual?...Nope, wrong Star Wars character."

"This!" exclaims Steven -- and yeah, he's pushing back the others again, he's still not in danger, he's just -- confused and stressed. "This is the confusing and stressful bit!"

"Sorry! I swear I haven't been snooping on all the private sexy details in the tie-in fic. I just saw the tags in the header."

Steven's next skee-ball veers so wildly off-course, it lands in Wade's machine instead. (Only netting him 10 points, even.)

"Um. Right. Lemme try that in a normal, fourth-wall-respecting way," says Wade sheepishly. "I heard...through boring everyday magic and/or super-science sources...that you and your 'teammates' are...getting along?"

"We are," allows Steven. "Getting along."

"Extremely well? Super-duper-well, even?"

Steven blushes some more. "...you might say that."

"Awesome! Good for you. Mazel tov." Wade tosses his last skee-ball into Steven's machine. (It leaves a worrying crack in one of the plastic rings, but it gets 20 points.) "That's all I was getting at! Honest."

"Thanks," says Steven. He's pretty sure he means it.

Vanessa finally comes back, holding a whole roll of tokens. "This should hold us for another half hour. Give or take. What did I miss?"

"Just more of my usual wacky nonsense!" says Wade. He throws a wink at Steven, then adds, without missing a beat: "Hey, if the author ever yoinks a certain kind of inspiration from the Ultimate 'verse, how would you feel about us offering Inner Child babysitting?"

Chapter Text

"Through here. Mind the arch! Stand over there. Don't touch that." (Jake jerks his hand away from a floating platform with a cool blue-and-gold gauntlet on it.) "Right there. Good. Give me your mask."

Jake, who's been following the rapid-fire orders as best he can, balks at that one. "Gotta stop you right there, Your Highness," he says. "Secret identity's staying secret in here."

"I do not care about your civilian identity, you ridiculous outsider," snaps Princess Shuri, sweeping around to the far side of a crystalline table, tapping the surface to activate a series of floating displays as she goes. "We are here for me to upgrade your transducer/broadcast interface."

My what? thinks Jake helplessly.

He's not used to the Wakandan accent. Which is fine for the job he was supposed to do, i.e. stand next to Layla and be an honorable representative of Khonshu, during a ceremony that's all in Xhosa anyway. Less fine when he's been dragged into the depths of a genuine Wakandan Design Group secret lab, full of distractingly-awesome gadgets that he's not allowed to touch, and getting new orders in accented English.

Steven chips in: She means the bloody microphone in our bloody cowl.

(Marc isn't around for this. Marc...doesn't handle funerals well.)

"I do not know when you got it, or how," continues Shuri, frenetically rearranging circuit diagrams on the different displays. "But if it was more than a year ago, the ferroelectric materials will not be in the latest static-resistant configuration. And if it was before the Blip, I have redesigned the entire stereophonic oscillator three times since then. You cannot be running around the whole planet representing such a low standard of Wakandan technology! So give it here."

She's developed mics that work better than whatever model she thinks we've got, translates Steven, and, okay, Jake did work out that much.

"Look, Your Highness, that sounds fascinatin'," he says cautiously. "And if you've got a spare hour, I would love to spend it gettin' the grand tour of literally any machine in here."

Seriously -- even as he's trying to give this speech, Jake is getting distracted by something that looks like a flying motorcycle crossed with an art-deco sculpture. Who does he have to kill to get one of those? (That's a joke.) (...probably.)

"But...there's no Wakandan tech in this outfit. Okay?"

Shuri whips around to stare at him, so fast he's afraid those earrings (a pair of bony white tusks, each as long as her hand) are gonna take somebody's eye out. "What? That cannot be right. My brother said..."

"Your brother is the reason we got this cover story," says Jake. "He's the one who improvised it, during a mission, to help one of the other Moon Knights out."

"And -- he never told me?"

Jake shrugs. Seems like a good thing to him, that King T'Challa, zichrono livracha, wasn't the kind of guy to spill other people's secrets, even to his own sister. But it's not like Jake ever had a relationship like that, so maybe he can't judge. What would he know from siblings?

(Sure, he's got headmates, but. That's different.)

The princess takes a few deep, ragged breaths. "Okay. All right. Never mind," she declares, wiping all the designs off the screens with one violent sweep of her hand. "What is it instead, then?"

Jake freezes. Do we go with the ancient-aliens story again?

No tech stories, thinks Steven. She's an engineering genius, and right now, she's -- well -- best not to try fooling her right now.

"It's fine if you don't know," says Shuri impatiently. "Give it here anyway. I'll figure it out."

"It's...not somethin' you can figure out."

"Of course it is!" yells Shuri. "I've figured out everything before -- I'll study it, learn the system, fix it up, make it better -- I have to do something!"

She punctuates that last word by slamming her fist down on the glittering tabletop. Not hard enough to crack it -- thing's probably laced with vibranium, you couldn't crack it with a power drill -- but hard enough to leave herself bruised.

For a hot second Jake is somewhere else. A different emptied room, a different memorial service going on outside, a different woman with wild eyes lashing out in fury because pounding bruises into limbs is so much easier than grieving --

Then he's back in the lab, still in the body, but with Steven at his back and hugging him so close they practically overlap. I'm right here. I've got you. Swap if you need to.

Jake needs --

What he needs is --

Not giving himself time to second-guess the move, he grabs the neckline of his suit's hood/cape/face-mask setup, and peels the whole thing up over his head.

If Marc wants to kick his ass about this later, he'll deal with it later.

"It's not tech," he says, handing the whole thing to Shuri. "Never was."

The Princess doesn't even look at his bare face. She feels around the cloth with her fingertips, grimaces as she gets through a full inspection without feeling anything special, then storms past Jake across the tiled stone floors to shove it in a glass-and-metal case. Lights blink on around it, a whole array of them. Something starts to hum.

"It was always talking to Khonshu," says Jake from behind her, after what seems like enough time for her to run out of plausible scans. (If he waits for her to scan for everything that's not plausible, they'll be here all night.)

"You...talk to Khonshu?" asks Shuri, leaning against the case.

"Yeah. All of us do."

"Does he...talk back?"

"Can't get him to shut up sometimes," says Jake, aiming for cheerful and landing on bitter. Sue him, he's sad, okay.

Shuri turns. Slowly, this time, and only halfway. Her eyes are glassy, but the tears haven't made it out yet. "Can you -- or he -- get in touch with Bast?"

Steven unloads a quick infodump into Jake's part of the brain, and Jake sends a pulse of gratitude back. "Don't know. Never tried. We've met other members of Khonshu's pantheon, but it seems like Bast's not a regular at their get-togethers anymore. Isn't she your god, though? Can't you just...talk to her direct?"

"I have tried." Shuri's voice sounds like it has to lug a ten-ton weight to reach them. "She does not answer."

Jake grimaces. (Sounds a lot like a certain other god who, if they ever do meet, he's gonna have a few words for.) "Can't promise anything, okay? But I'll put out a few feelers, and if anything turns up, I'll let you know."

"See that you do."

The princess waves a hand in their direction, like she's sweeping a piece of trash into the bin.

"That is all. You may go."

"...did you wanna walk me out?"

"No."

"Are you, uh...are you sure..."

"Just go!"

The world blurs and fuzzes around him -- 

-- Steven has the body, walking it down a Wakandan street. With everyone dressed head-to-toe in mourning white, his Moon Knight suit fits right in.

...you made it out okay? asks Jake, hanging onto Steven's mental shoulders to trail listlessly after him. Pretty sure they got dragged past about eight state secrets on the way to the workshop, and if they went back unaccompanied...

Turns out there's a helpful lab AI, thinks Steven. Showed me the path out. Assured a couple of remarkably well-armed women -- armed in the sense that they had excellent spears, and also excellent biceps -- that I was following it on the Princess' direct orders.

Oh good, that takes care of Jake's top worry. And maybe the second one, too. Lab AI?...That means it's keepin' an eye on the lady, right? Didn't seem like a good idea to leave her alone.

(Did he hear a broken sob, in that last second before the lab doors closed? Or did Steven hear it, and Jake's just now catching up? Or was that another memory he's patching in, from some completely different place...)

It's with her, confirms Steven. She's not alone. And there's all sorts of other people around here who love her -- not just the ones she's built. I'm sure she'll be all right.

Chapter Text

"Evenin', verdezota. Or, uh, I guess it's afternoon over there?"

Jen -- who is not actually green right this second, she's not meeting with clients who need a super impression -- turns her laptop, so the video call can take in the panoramic GKL&H windows. "Gorgeous sunny California afternoon, yes. Are you back in London?"

"Where I am is a lil' bit classified," says Jake. He's outside, apparently on some kind of rooftop, but the blur of city lights in the background is generic enough that it could be anywhere in a currently-at-night time zone.

"I'm alone in the office, and we're not being recorded, if that helps?"

"It doesn't. Lo siento. Local job's all wrapped up, though -- what did you want to talk about?"

"Well." Jen folds her hands. "I'm working on some proposals for a legal framework for dealing with multiple people in one body, and I was hoping you'd be willing to look it over and make some comments."

Jake sits up a little straighter. "All right, you've got my Other Guy's attention," he says, tapping his head. "He's the resident nerd in here. What kind of legal stuff we talkin' about?"

"Family law, mostly. For instance -- let's say one of you gets married. Is the spouse legally married to all of you? Or only one? Can the spouse be married to some of you but not all, and how do we frame that in a way that doesn't trip over anti-polygamy laws? And in a case of divorce--"

"No divorce!" yelps the man on the other end of the line, suddenly in a British accent. "Who said anything about -- nobody's getting divorced! ...If any of us are even married, which we will neither confirm nor deny!"

Jen pushes back her laptop for a second and looks at you folks. "Okay, c'mon, it's pretty obvious all three of the Moon Knights -- including the one whose marriage is public record -- are sharing that body, right? It's not one of those things I only get to acknowledge in fourth-wall-breaking cutaways? That's a discovery I would've put together in-universe by now."

Going back to the video call, she says, "Hi there, Other Guy. Is there something else I can call you? Feels a little rude to just think of you as Not-Jake."

After a moment of deliberation, he answers: "Steven. Just call me Steven."

"Cool. Thanks, Steven. This isn't insinuating anything about you guys, okay? I'm working on general principles that could apply to any body-sharing case -- caused by magic, or super-science, or anything else -- that comes across our desk."

"Right. 'Course. Sorry," says Steven. "Ah...does that mean you have a body-sharing client right now?"

"Couldn't tell you if I did."

Over her shoulder, she stage-whispers to the readers:

"It's Bruce. Technically not a client, but oh my god. We left him and the Big Guy unsupervised for one movie and now he's the baby-daddy to a half-alien kid! Did you see that coming? I know it's a thing in the comics, but did you have any idea they were gonna...Anyway, it's not a legal issue yet, and Bruce keeps telling me it's not going to be! But once he figures out he's wrong, I'm gonna be prepared."

On-screen, Steven is making a series of faces. "No, Jake, don't--"

His accent switches back to Jake's. "Steven thinks this is rude to ask, so if you get mad about it, blame me, ay? Is this the kinda consulting we oughta be asking a fee for?"

"Depends," says Jen. "Any of you guys have a law license in a jurisdiction I don't know about?"

"Uh...no."

"Then no. You're contributing to a pro bono amicus brief. Please, no jokes, there's no pun you can make here that drunk pre-law students haven't come up with already."

Jake nods seriously. "I'll keep that in mind."

"The proposal also has a section about parenting, if that's okay? How the law should handle things like custody agreements or visitation terms, when one of the bodies being physically visited has multiple different people in it. Again, I'd appreciate your expert feedback on the 'being multiple people' part, even if you don't literally have kids."

"Noooo," says Steven with relief. "We do not."

Jake winks. "...that we know of."

Their body jerks in its seat, gagging for a second, like something went down the wrong pipe.

"Joking!" yells Jake. "I was joking! Get a grip! Por dios, I have been plenty responsible with our dick, and I can swear that on a stack of law books if you want." He looks hopefully at his phone camera. "You got those, right?"

"Heck, I can get you just family law books, and still have a stack."

"There. See?"

Jake sighs. The pattern of glowing windows behind him changes, as someone comes home and turns on the lights, while someone else switches them off for the night.

"They're just paranoid," he tells Jen. "And, listen, we've all done stuff with the body that the others didn't know about. So it's not technically comin' outta nowhere. But come on. I wrap it up."

"True!" says Jen. "I can testify to that."

"And I know plenty of ways to have fun that wouldn't knock anyone up in the first place."

Jen smirks. "That too."

"I mean -- if you buy the theory that we live in some kind of infinite multiverse, I guess there's gotta be some timeline somewhere where some version of me fathered a secret baby, and then just hid it from you guys." Jake makes a face. "But I'm not that guy. Fuck that guy. I ever meet that guy in our part of the multiverse, I'll kick his ass."

"Oh, phew." Jen throws a sidelong glance at you again. "For a minute there I was worried this was foreshadowing something later in the fic, you know? But nope, it's just dunking on the Bemis run. Never a bad time for dunking on the Bemis run."

In the camera shot, behind Jake's head, something large and metal and egg-shaped cruises by.

Jen does a double-take. "Whoa! Was that a UFO?"

"Uh," says Jake. "Wouldn't say it's unidentified, no."

"Are you -- on an alien planet?"

"An alien planet we can make video calls from? Gosh, no," says Steven. "It's a classified part of Earth, I promise. Being a Fist of Khonshu does not pay enough for an interstellar data plan."

Before Jen can make her next guess, the browser next to her Zoom window refreshes.

Trending news topics have, unsurprisingly, spent the whole day switching between variations on "the funeral of King T'Challa." The latest one is "prominent people around the world, but mostly Americans, salty that they were not personally invited to Wakanda to attend the funeral of King T'Challa."

Ohhhh.

"Classified. Got it," she says out loud. "I'm going to forward you the documents now, okay? Take a few days, look them over, let me know what you think. Short comments are totally fine, but a longer review would be awesome."

"Oh, you're gonna get a long one, all right," says Jake, as another Wakandan flying car zooms past in the background. "Steven's already workin' out the variety pack of highlighters he's gonna buy to make color-coded annotations. You're in for a treat."

Chapter Text

It starts out like any normal "rescuing a tourist from a mugging" night for Spider-Man...until the part where his danger-sense goes crazy about the guy he thought he was rescuing.

They're in an empty lot, so Peter webs both of the tourist's wrists to the cement wall of the nearest building. There's a tense few moments where his eyes are saying "this is a normal non-enhanced human making a futile attempt to yank himself free," while his instincts seesaw wildly between "yeah, totally normal" and "horrifying danger, if you take your eyes off him for two seconds he will definitely murder you."

The actual muggers...get away. Oops.

"All right, I give up, what did I do?" complains the tourist, in a British accent. He has slicked-back curly hair, a jacket with a high collar, and a threadbare messenger bag sliding off his shoulder. "They were the ones trying to nick my wallet, didn't you notice?"

"I did!" admits Peter, crouched on top of a graffiti-covered dumpster. "I just, uh...I get these vibes, you know? Part of the superpowers. Usually it tells me who's dangerous."

"Well, I probably was dangerous," sulks the tourist, who is no longer giving off a single bad spider-vibe. "To the muggers. How long does this stuff take to come off?"

"Uh...on its own, this formula disintegrates in about an hour..."

"An hour?"

"...but I have a dissolving agent in here somewhere!" Peter starts patting the pockets of his handmade costume. (He misses having a nanotech super-suit so hard sometimes.)

"Sounds promising," says the British guy hopefully. "How long does the dissolving take?"

Peter finds the bottle, and crosses the lot at a nice normal walking pace. "Fifteen minutes, tops. And I'll stay right here while it works, make sure nobody else goes for your wallet in the meantime, okay? Sorry. Really sorry..."

He's in arm's-length of the tourist when an icy breeze blows down the street, and Peter's danger-sense explodes --

He leaps onto the wall -- scrambles up to the height of the second story -- puts the cement at his back so he can panic-fire another burst of web-fluid in the direction of the new threat --

The web shoots through thin air, all the way to the next building over. It makes an ugly splat against the wooden siding, barely visible in the deep shadows --

"Okay, I know it doesn't look like there's anything there," says Peter out loud. He's breathing harder than he should be. Do spiders have a special kind of panic attack? "But I'm telling you--"

"Oi! You do this every night?" interrupts the tourist. "Run around the city looking for people in trouble, I mean?"

Is he trying to imply that Peter's making himself paranoid? Or is this just a diss about Spider-Man's lack of a social life? "I made a promise," says Peter shortly. "To use these powers responsibly."

"So you've sort of...sworn to protect the travelers of the night?"

"Uh," says Peter. "Weird way to put it, but yeah? I guess?"

As the words come out of his mouth, his danger-sense is already starting to dial down. The looming spider-panic-attack dries up and washes away.

"...what the hell."

"Sorry," says the tourist. "I'm told I say weird things sometimes."

"What just happened? Was that some kind of secret code? Are you a wizard?" blurts Peter, who has also promised himself that he's not getting involved with any more sorcerers. Ever!

"Oh, come off it, not every British person is secretly a wizard!" The tourist yanks at one of his web-bound arms again, then raises an eye at Peter. "Anyway, if I was, wouldn't I just magic my way out of this stuff? Honestly."

Chastised, Peter gets back to the part where he pours a few drops of dissolving fluid on each glob of webbing. He's grimacing under the mask, though. There is something about this he doesn't trust, if only he could figure out what...

His stomach growls.

"Uh," says the tourist. "Am I keeping you from dinner?"

"No, no, don't put that on yourself," sighs Peter, capping the bottle and sealing it back in his pocket. "My dumb trigger-happy web-slinging is keeping me from dinner."

"Well...once I'm off this wall, can I buy you something? Pizza's supposed to be good around here, right? Let me buy you pizza."

Oh geez, as if this night wasn't awkward enough, now it's uncomfortable for a whole new reason. "I...think you might be a little old for me?"

"Wh--oh my god, not a date kind of dinner!" The poor tourist slumps against the wall with a groan. "Absolutely not. I am extremely taken, and you're -- bloody hell, are you even legal?"

"Hey!" yelps Peter. "I'm in my twenties!"

It's not a lie. The number 20 is one of the twenties.

"And I don't do this superhero stuff for rewards, okay? No donations, no free food, nothing. That's not what it's about."

"Right." The British guy cranes his neck to look at Peter, now hanging off the cement wall next to him. "You're a young fellow in his twenties, who zips around the city every night fighting crimes instead of going to uni or parties or whatever else twentysomethings do...probably running on some kind of enhanced spider-metabolism on top of that...and you won't accept a slice of pizza from a grateful public?"

"Yeah. Exactly."

There's a heavy silence for a while. The tourist tugs on his trapped arms again. There's some give in the webbing now; it's not enough for him to get free yet, but it's close.

Eventually he says, "What if it wasn't 'thank you for saving me from being mugged' pizza?"

Peter blinks. "Sorry?"

"Well, for instance, if it was 'sorry I stressed you out with my bad spider-vibes' pizza," says the tourist hopefully. "Or 'thank you for recommending a local vegan pizza place' pizza. Would it fit your personal code of ethics to accept that?"

Another long silence.

"...there's a place two blocks north of here that has vegan options," says Peter at last. "And I heard their fake cheese is supposed to be amazing."

Chapter Text

"Sir, as you're not an employee, I'mma have to ask you to take that off or leave the park."

"It's just a suit!" protests Steven to the guard, a heavyset man in a blue collared shirt that looks like every security uniform ever, except for the embroidered Mickey-head patch. "There is no possible way I'm violating anyone's copyright. You can't copyright the three-piece suit."

(Judging by some of the legal nonsense Jen has gone through, it's possible someone could scoop a copyright or trademark for Marc's or Jake's armor. Which is part of why Steven is fronting for this! Spooky face mask aside, his outfit is generic.)

"It's not about copyright," says the guard, glaring up at Steven from under the brim of his shiny black hat. "We don't allow anyone to wear costumes of anything on park grounds."

"I'm not advertising anything, I swear," pleads Steven. "See, there's a missing artifact, could be very dangerous if it gets into the wrong hands, I'm tracking it down on behalf of--"

"You can be doing an Olympic ski routine on behalf of the goddamn Queen of England for all I care," snaps the guard. "But I'm gonna need you to take it outside the--"

"Excuse me!" booms a new voice. "Can I help with something here?"

Steven jumps -- then relaxes, because, hey, that's Thor! His aura of power and majesty is unmistakable. Even when he's abiding by the park rules, having swapped his Asgardian battle garb for a screen-printed T-shirt and faded blue jeans.

Marc and Jake, who were already mostly quiet (except some disgruntled grumbling about someone bothering Steven), hush up completely.

The guard, for his part, lights up. "Thor! Yes! Of course! Much appreciated. This fellow needs to be escorted off the premises."

Thor gives Steven a quick once-over, then turns his most warm-hearted smile on the guard. "I could certainly do that. First, might I ask what he did wrong?"

The guard explains the costume policy, and, when Thor is puzzled, the rationale behind it. "Y'see, Your Mightiness, children come to these parks to meet their favorite characters that they love and trust. Which is why we vet all our employed characters, real thorough-like. But when a completely un-vetted customer comes wandering around in the park -- not part of a family, as you might notice -- and dresses up in an outfit that makes our child customers inclined to trust him...you can see why we 'ave rules against that."

"People would trust him?"

Speaking of children. That question came from a girl with long brown hair, poking her head out from behind Thor's prodigious legs. She's human-shaped; Steven can't tell from looking if she's actually human, or Asgardian, or some other alien species. Any distinguishing markings are hidden under the layer of Elsa-themed face paint.

She wrinkles her nose suspiciously at Steven, and declares, "He's spooky."

"Sweetie, on Earth it's not polite to call people spooky," says Thor. "Except during their designated Festivals of Spookiness. Now, brave officer: I know this man, I can absolutely vouch for him, and I must inform you that this is not, in fact, a character costume. He is a priest, and these are his vestments."

"A priest," repeats the officer dubiously.

"Exactly!"

"Priest of who?"

"The god Khonshu," says Thor, with ceremonial confidence. "God of the Moon and the Night Sky, Embracer, Pathfinder, Defender, Protector of--"

"Never heard of 'im," interrupts the officer. "Look. Mister Thor. You say you vouch for this fellow? Guarantee 'e won't cause any harm while he's 'ere?"

"I do say so, yes! On my honor as the God of Thunder, Son of Odin, former King of Asgard, founding member of the Avengers, and--"

"Would you be willing to stick with him? Keep an eye on 'im, and repeat your guarantee to any other security personnel as might have an objection to his...'vestments'?"

"That depends." Thor turns to Steven. "May I ask, what are your plans for this visit? My ward here wants to try all the rides, and we have dinner reservations at a particular themed restaurant, so if that is acceptable to your plans..."

Steven waves down one of the park's cheerful streets. "Mostly I just need to go that direction for a while, pick up a dangerous artifact, and then squirrel it out of the park? Out of any human population center, really. But no rush -- it hasn't melted anyone in the past twenty years, it probably won't start within the next few hours."

"Excellent!" exclaims Thor. "We shall make our way hence, try the finest rides along our path, then complete your quest and walk you to the gate, being sure to leave ourselves plenty of time to get to the feast."

The guard looks from Steven to Thor. "What was that you said about 'melting'?"

*

So, yeah, they go pick up the artifact first. The kid protests, until Thor swears they'll stop for plenty of rides while escorting the Fist of Khonshu back to the gates.

The girl's name is Love -- at least, that's the English translation. She tells them what it is in the original language, and accepts when Thor explains to her that Steven can't pronounce it, because "humans don't have the right throat parts."

Steven awkwardly summarized their target for his headmates as "not an ushabti, but not not an ushabti." It's at the base of an attraction that's mostly fake rock, but packed into a layer of real rock. Sort of behind-the-scenes, enough that all the ordinary park guests are at a distance, and the staff clear out of the area at Thor's charming request.

"I'll have to swap the costume around to get this out," says Steven out loud. Mostly for Love's benefit, partly for Marc's. "This version doesn't come with any sharp bits."

Ugh, he's right, it doesn't look like they have a choice. Marc swaps to the front, and draws a crescent dart.

He's carving the artifact out when Love walks right up to him and leans over his shoulder. "How'd you do that?"

Now, Marc can imitate the accents of both his headmates pretty convincingly. (At least, in short bursts.) For human senses, that's good enough! But Asgardians can sense energies and feelings of spirit, which Marc has no idea how to spoof. And who knows what the alien kid can pick up?

There's another option, though. A trick they can do at home, though they've never tried it in the field. It works when they're working at the same task in the same way, holding the same feelings, wanting the same results...

He takes a deep breath. Steven picks up what he's going for, and leans in...

"Magic," says MarcandSteven.

"He shapeshifts the vestments into different forms for different purposes," puts in Thor helpfully. "This form also flies! Maybe later, if you ask politely, he'll show you."

They finally slice the not-not-ushabti free. MarcandSteven picks it up with his fingertips --

-- and it burns, right through the gloves. The scalding pain knocks Steven away from the body. Marc, alone, drops it to the ground and flinches back.

"Ah, if I may," says Thor. "Does Khonshu need you to bring back that artifact in one piece? Or is that not part of the deal?"

The headmates don't try to blend again, just give the suit a couple seconds to repair their fingers, then let it shift as Steven swaps back in. "The ultimate plan is to destroy it. Don't think it matters if it's already broken when we get it to him."

"Magnificent! Would he have any objection to someone else destroying it? Say, for instance, right here and now?"

"Oh, gosh, yes," breathes Steven, backing gratefully away from it. "Do the honors, please."

Thor's eyes start glowing -- not with the steady moon-glow the suit has, but with the crackling charge of lightning. "Scoot back out of the blast radius, Love! Atta girl. Friend Moon Knight, would you mind terribly bringing the cape back out, and holding it in front of her?"

Park security aren't going to be happy about this, either, thinks Steven, as Marc shields Love with the cape.

On the plus side -- if they don't want the average visitor to be scared of the sudden light show, Big Thunder Mountain is certainly the place to do it.

Chapter Text

"Take the jet to the drop point, you said," complains Bucky, as the mud of a historic and picturesque Allegheny Mountain trail sucks picturesquely at his boots. He's heavier than any normal human at the best of times, and the weight of a whole Captain America on his back isn't helping. "We'll catch up on foot, you said."

"Oh, put on your big-boy muzzle and get over it, Soldat," huffs Yelena. 

There's a chorus of horrified "ohhh!"s from the rest of their group, and Kate -- riding on Yelena's back -- adds, "If you two are gonna fight, I'll walk."

"Your leg is almost certainly broken, Kate Bishop," scolds Yelena. 

"Noooo, it is definitely broken." Kate's voice is a little loopy, but clear enough to understand. "And if you two are gonna fight, I'll take my chances walking on it."

"They're not gonna fight," says the fifth member of their party: Marc, leading the way, because his eyes save them from draining their flashlight batteries. "We're two miles out. Maybe two and a half. They can hold it together until then."

He sounds tired. Hopefully that's just exasperation. He probably lost more blood than Sam earlier, and insisted on all their limited painkillers being divvied up between Sam and Kate -- so this would be a really bad time for the Moon Knight healing powers to have some kind of glitch.

He's carrying his own weight for now, at least.

He's also carrying Sam's shield.

Tactically, Bucky should have been the one who took it. He's the non-injured party member with the most experience using it. Selfishly, he wanted to be the one to carry Sam.

(He's not losing another one, dammit.)

Even with the glowing eyes, the gloomy path ahead of them seems darker with every step...and all of a sudden Bucky realizes why. The path isn't carrying them up the slope anymore. It's going into a tunnel -- made for small trains, one side retrofitted into a path for cyclists and hikers -- with the shadow of the mountain looming over the entrance. 

Marc comes to a stop.

"Moon Knight." Sam's voice is impressively steady, for a guy who's having trouble lifting his head from Bucky's shoulder. "Status report."

"Clear," pants Marc. "I think. I -- give me a second."

They give him several.

And, look, any other day, "don't shove a colleague face-first into major triggers" and "don't split the party" would be priorities. (Marc didn't even tell Sam and Bucky why he has a major trigger with caves, just shared enough detail for Bucky to track down the news reports. He's pretty sure Yelena and Kate don't know at all.)

But Sam and Kate need actual medical attention, and they need it ASAP. So they're taking the direct route to the jet, whether Marc can keep up or not...

"Suit's doing a thing," says Marc. "Sorry. Hold on."

He hefts the shield up behind his back, blocking the view of his head and shoulders...and the cape vanishes. Along with the rest of the suit, apparently. The clothes that replace it are a padded coat, plain pants and boots, all in practical dark fabric.

Another breath, and the cape drops back down -- but instead of the heavy textured fabric, it's smooth and silky and impossibly white. He holsters the shield on his arm, unveiling the rest of the modern armor-and-kevlar design that Dark Mode Moon Knight prefers.

"Fixed it," he tells the others, stalking forward again. "C'mon."

"Seriously?" asks Kate from Yelena's back, as she and Bucky match pace with Marc into the tunnel. "Did you just 'have you tried turning it off and on again' with magic moon armor?"

"Look, if it works, it works," says Marc tersely. "Some things, you gotta not look at 'em too close."

*

The tunnel falls behind them, easy. put the tunnel behind them, and another half-mile of trail, before Yelena speaks again. "You are concerningly quiet, Kate Bishop."

"Mm," says Kate. "I thought about saying 'well, it could be worse'...five-ish minutes ago? Decided it was probably safer to keep my mouth shut."

A general murmur of approval from Marc, Bucky, and Yelena.

...and now Bucky's the concerned one. "Sam? You still with us?"

No answer.

"Come on, Sam." Bucky gives him a shake -- nothing too hard, Sam's grip has gone slack and Bucky doesn't want to dump him off. "I can feel you breathing, man, I know you're fine. Say something."

Marc spins on his heels, walking backward down the bike path while his bright eyes shine on Sam's face. "Passed out," he reports, before pointing at Yelena: "You. Your ex-Widow friends have more medical stuff on the jet, ay?"

"Of course."

"Cool." He jabs the edge of the shield into the path and lets it go, making grabby-hands at Bucky. "He's getting a free express connecting flight on Air Moon Knight. Gimme."

"Wait -- you could've been flying us this whole way?" blurts Kate, as Bucky turns around.

"I can fly one person, one way. Once I ditch the rest of you, there's no way in hell I'll be able to find you again." Marc presses two fingers against Sam's neck, then he and Bucky work together to shift Sam into his arms. "Heart rate's still passable. Let's not wait for it to get worse."

"Be extra-careful with this guy, okay?" Bucky adjusts Sam's limbs as efficiently as he can -- delaying them too long is bad, but Marc losing his grip midair would be worse. "You know he's America's sweetheart."

"Huh, really?" asks Marc. "Kinda thought you were America's sweetheart."

He doesn't wait around to see the reaction, just springs into the air, crescent cape flaring with its own unnatural brightness against the clouded-over sky.

Normally when Bucky hears a line like that, it's either "trying to get some juicy gossip" or "trying to nail him with an accusation." Depending on how the speaker feels about Steve, and/or Sam, and/or the general idea of men dating each other.

But apparently that was just...a quip?

Marc quips?

"We are certain the suit is magic?" asks Yelena, apparently as surprised by this twist as Bucky is. "The 'healing' is not just shooting him up with painkillers?"

Bucky yanks the shield out of the ground, and brushes dirt off the edge as they start once more down the trek. "Nah. If it was, he would share."

*

By the time they get to the jet -- it's really more of a full-on mobile operations center, Yelena's crew of ex-Widows does not screw around -- Sam is reportedly stable. Still out like a light, but he's had a transfusion and stitches and way better bandaging, so they can roll Kate into the medical theater to set her leg while Sam sleeps it off in the next compartment.

Bucky sits beside the seat that's been unfolded into a temporary mattress as the jet takes off, holding Sam's limp hand and watching him breathe.

Marc lurks silently in a corner.

They're not in the air long before Yelena joins them, a couple fresh bandages on her own face, a first-aid kit in her grip. "Give me that arm," she orders Bucky, sitting next to him and pushing up his sleeve.

It's barely a scrape. He's not sure how she even clocked it. (He lets her clean it up anyway.)

Without preamble, she adds, "Are you really Orthodox Moon Knight?"

Marc -- still in Dark Mode's preferred suit design, still in a corner that Bucky would swear was not that shadowy to start with -- stares. "Huh?"

"You...do know how the suit works, right?" asks Bucky.

"I have seen its famous shapeshifting prowess, yes," says Yelena. "I have also seen that the Moon Knights inside it have similar builds and heights. However, they move differently. Speak differently. These things are hard to hide. So: is this Orthodox Moon Knight, but doing a remarkable impression of Dark Mode, in addition to wearing the same suit? Or has this been Dark Mode Moon Knight all along, and earlier, he was doing a remarkable impression of Orthodox?"

Bucky opens his mouth...and nothing comes out.

He wants to say that's absurd. (Why would they even pull that switch? What would be the point?) But...the quipping? That was way more of a Dark Mode quip.

"Oh, for the love of..."

Moon Knight closes his eyes and rubs his forehead -- then disappears the hood and cowl completely.

"Barnes. ID me, will you?"

With a sigh that probably sounds more relieved than he meant to let on, Bucky says, "That's still Orthodox."

And, really, why wouldn't they be similar? They train together, off the field. There's the polycule situation. Bucky's pretty sure they spend a lot of time together, just in general. Of course they would pick up a few tics from each other.

"Here," adds Marc, switching the suit back. From the neck down, still leaving his face uncovered. "Just for you."

Unrelenting, Yelena gives him a narrow-eyed glare. "Twins?"

C'mon, obviously Bucky thought of that. "Not unless they have identical scars," he says -- in the same moment as Marc snaps, "Oh my god, we're not brothers."

"All right, yeesh," says Yelena, backing off. "Touchy, touchy."

Sam helpfully breaks the tension by stirring, cracking his eyes open, and mumbling something that roughly translates to "what happened?" or "where are we?" or "what the hell?"

...and you know what, screw it. Bucky cups Sam's head, brings their faces together, and plants one on him.

Sam goes with the kiss. Marc bursts out into a fit of coughing. Yelena sits back and says the Russian equivalent of "Mazel tov."

At last Bucky lets Sam go and collapses over his chest, face smushed against his collarbone. Sam doesn't say a word about the weight of the vibranium, just curls an arm around Bucky's shoulders to hold him in place. "Mmmrgh. Hi, Buck. Who all did we just let in on that, exactly...?"

Marc says he won't let it go beyond the Scarlet Scarab and the other Moon Knights. Yelena makes a pointed comment about how she's completely responsible with confidential information, but Bucky talks her down -- it's only fair, when he and Sam have been sharing their Team Moon Knight intel with each other since day one.

"Uh," adds Sam, speaking over Bucky's head. "You okay there, man?"

Bucky twists around to check.

Marc is still a bit teary-eyed and short-of-breath from the coughing fit, but waves their concerns away. "Me? Fine. Never better. It's just -- funny story -- you're gonna laugh..."

He takes a deep breath.

"A certain one of the Moon Knights owes a certain other Moon Knight fifty quid."

Chapter Text

When Team Moon Knight comes to, they're suspended in a cylinder of golden light. Thin lines of power run along its surface, tracing elaborate patterns of circles and lines, spirals and curves.

It's dramatically out-of-place in the rustic old living room. The walls are plain, the furniture is weathered, there's not a single tchotchke that looks like it was made after the 1960s. For crying out loud, the TV in the corner has a 4:3 resolution, and a set of physical, turnable knobs next to the screen!

...Okay, there are a few gadgets that look more modern. Including the one that has them imprisoned. But in this house, that probably means they're unnervingly old.

Nicer than a lot of the places we've been held prisoner, reflects Steven.

Getting caught by a bunch of people in a city, I could handle, complains Jake. Getting taken down in Middle of Nowhere, South Dakota, population bupkis? This is just embarrassing.

The population is almost four hundred, thinks Steven, and the town is called--

The guy who zapped them unconscious in the first place walks past the window, talking on a phone.

Everybody shut up, cuts in Marc. That sounds like Arabic, but I gotta focus.

The others shut up.

Unfortunately, the guy's dialogue is muffled. And the Arabic sounds more Shami than Masri. Marc can only catch scattered phrases: "...don't know if we have another...I didn't make it!...moon shapes...four times before he..."

"Are you a Uni-Mind?"

Moon Knight, collectively, jumps.

There's a small child standing in the doorway. Fluffy afro, chubby cheeks, big ears, T-shirt with some brightly-colored cartoon character.

"Don't know what that is," says Marc. "Are you secretly an immortal being who's grouchy because you have to pretend to be a human child?"

The kid giggles. "No, dummy, Daddy Phil's immortal. I'm six. Daddy Ben said nobody could break out of this unless they're a Uni-Mind."

What the fuck, thinks Jake, summing it up pretty nicely.

"Maybe it's a kind of alien," reflects the child. "Are you secretly a alien?"

Okay, Marc didn't come here planning to interrogate a six-year-old...but he doesn't have a lot of other options right now. "No, but you want to know something cool? I have a friend who's from the Moon. Is that your Daddy Phil outside?"

"No, that's Daddy Ben! Daddy Phil went on a trip to space. Did you ever go to the Moon?"

"Once, yeah. Do you know how to let me out of here?"

"Nuh-uh. What's the Moon like?"

"Um...fun," hedges Marc. "You know how the gravity's lower up there? I did a lot of bouncing around. That was pretty neat. Do you know who your Daddy Ben is talking to?"

"Prob'ly Daddy Phil's friends from college," says the kid matter-of-factly. "They live in England! Did you know, right now, in England, it's the middle of the night?"

Internally, Steven yawns. Gosh, like I could forget.

"I think I heard that somewhere, yeah," says Marc out loud. "Listen, young man...can you run and get your dad, and ask him what a Uni-Mind is? Then come back and tell me, so I can decide if I am one or not."

The kid scampers out of the room.

"I mean, we're obviously not, right?" mutters Jake. "We are the exact goddamn opposite of uni."

"Sure, that's what it sounds like -- but think about it," says Steven. "Why would somebody design this fancy alien super-science trap, and have its only weakness be something that applies to, oh, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of human beings?"

"That is not what it means."

Team Moon Knight cranes their collective neck to see Khonshu. The room doesn't have a lot of high places for him to perch on, so he's hunkered on top of the old TV set, weathered robes trailing on the floor..

"When the Forevers of Earth were seeking to stop the Emergence, they devised a new technique," rumbles Khonshu. "In theory, all Forevers are capable of it...but they do not know of any other factions that have developed it."

Marc puts it together. "So they made a super-science trap whose weakness is their technique. This group and their allies have the key to get out of it. Nobody else knows how."

And Steven makes another leap from there: "Wait, is this 'uni' as in united?"

"Yes."

"Does it involve several different minds coming together, then?"

"Yes."

"...well, great," says Jake. "You two do your blendy thing, call me back when we're out."

"You could--" begins Steven -- but Jake's presence is already gone.

"Probably for the best, babe." Honestly, Marc is relieved he didn't have to be the jerk who kicked Jake out. "Even when we're relaxing at home, you two still haven't managed to get that close -- him and me definitely haven't -- putting the pressure on isn't gonna make it any easier, you know?"

"Yeah." Steven tries not to sound too despondent. "Suppose you're right."

"I can also connect my mind with yours, my Avatars," says Khonshu, the soul of generosity. "To invite me in, all you need do is pray."

Marc and Steven roll their eyes in perfect sync. "I think we're good."

*

Sprite is deep in discussion with Ben when a new voice yells, "Hey! Peter Pan!"

The view on her phone skews and shears when Ben drops it, landing face-up so Sprite gets a screenful of sky.

"Don't you point that thing at me again," warns the stranger. "The lady's gonna want to hear what I have to say."

"Ben, what the hell is going on over there?" yells Sprite, and shakes her own phone until Ben picks his up and points the camera at Ajax's cabin.

There's a human on the roof. In ceremonial armor that Sprite could swear she's seen...somewhere. A gust of wind blows his cape out in a crescent shape behind him, which would be way more dramatic if it wasn't nearly the same off-white as the cloudy sky.

"Don't know who you were trying to contact with that gadget," calls the armored man, "but it wasn't working! You were about to get the attention of -- okay, Khonshu won't actually tell me names -- he just keeps calling them certain forces Earth is not prepared to fight."

"Khonshu?" repeats Sprite. "Moon god Khonshu? Sealing of Ammit, Khonshu?"

"That's him. I'm his Avatar."

"Is he the one who got you out of Phastos' trap?"

"Look, the moon is real mysterious, all right? I'm not about to ruin the mystery by explaining things!"

So, ugh, he probably doesn't even know. Great. Sprite is glad they saved humanity, she doesn't regret it or anything -- but individual human beings are such pains.

Speaking of pain..."And Khonshu couldn't just tell us we were putting the Earth in danger? He had to send his Avatar, behind our backs, to sneak around like a creep and smash our beacon?"

"Look, you've known the guy for seven thousand years, haven't you?" counters the Avatar. "Is that kind of tactic surprising from him?"

Sprite groans. "Nope. No. Absolutely not surprising at all."

Chapter Text

The portal opens onto an unremarkable mostly-empty parking lot, sloping upward to an overpass on one side, and down into the harbor of a massive lake on the other.

Marc and Layla step through from the London Sanctum, accompanied by half a dozen sorcerers, and Marc tries to clock which cities the other portals are opening from.

New York is obvious: that's the group that includes Dr. Strange, Barnes and Wilson, Belova with Kid Hawkeye, Daredevil...and a couple non-costumed folks even Steven doesn't recognize, a black guy built like a brick wall and a dark-haired white woman who looks like she would stab as a warning.

The group with both Hulks must be from Los Angeles. There's some battle armor they recognize as Wakandan, and some in the style of New Asgard. The massive bloc of sorcerers with Wong in the lead is probably straight from Kamar-Taj.

Not sure about the portal that ushers in Hawkeye Original Flavor, or two people in weird buggy suits that Steven identifies as Ant-Man and the Wasp...

One extra-large portal opens in midair, and a whole goddamn space shuttle soars through to park itself on the overpass, bay doors opening to discharge some Guardians of the Galaxy.

"Where are we, anyway?" asks Barnes to nobody in particular. "I'm getting serious deja vu, but..."

"Probably Vancouver!" chirps Deadpool. Marc braces himself for some totally incomprehensible reason behind this guess, and sure enough: "For tax reasons, most cities are Vancouver."

"Climate is consistent with the Great Lakes region," muses Belova, scanning the air. (Bishop, next to her, is just pulling out a phone to check the GPS.) "Signage is monolingual in English..."

Marc clears his throat. "Cleveland! This is Cleveland."

"Cool!" says Kid Hawkeye. "Did your guy in the chair look it up?"

"What? No." Marc gestures to the largest building on the waterfront: a giant stadium, accessorized with posters in team-branded colors. "That's where the Browns play. I just...knew that."

"Guy in the chair?" repeats Daredevil under his breath.

Kid Hawkeye starts whispering an explanation, which Marc is distracted from by the next portal opening. Must be from San Francisco -- this handful of sorcerers is in the company of Shang-Chi, and Katy Chen, and...

A hushed murmur runs through the crowd.

"Ooh, right," whispers Jen over her shoulder to the readers. "One of the bonus fics steered her out of the influence of the Darkhold. And, more importantly, out of the influence of the Multiverse of Madness writers."

"Is that Wanda Maximoff?" whispers Layla.

"Sure is," says Marc. A bit of Steven bleeds through as he adds, "She looks amazing."

Layla raises an eyebrow. 

"I'm not checking her out!" hisses Marc. "I just mean, last time I saw her, she was dressed depression casual. Hoodie and pajama pants, in the middle of the day. And now look."

Wanda is wearing a long-sleeved, form-hugging, crimson top, trailing behind her in the back like a subtle cape, or a goth wedding dress. It comes with black leggings, knee-high boots, and a red crown-tiara-headpiece-thing, setting off a head of perfect red beachy waves.

Almost everyone in Kamar-Taj robes shies away from her -- some subtly, others not.

("...not a radio, I would've heard...")

Marc wonders if they should go say hi. If a show of support would be appreciated. Or if the Moon Knights are still on the fringe of this group themselves, so association with them wouldn't help...

Then Barnes and Sam Wilson slip quietly forward. (Steven shares the memory that, when Barnes first started to break his HYDRA programming, Wanda and Sam were two of the people Steve Rogers personally asked to help protect him.) From another direction, Original Hawkeye does the same. (The third person Rogers asked for help, and one of the people who mentored Wanda through her own rescue from HYDRA, in tandem with Original Black Widow.)

Okay, Wanda will probably be fine.

("...can't be Stark tech, I thought it was Wakandan...")

A sizzling energy platform appears toward the high end of the parking lot, and the Cloak of Levitation deposits Dr. Strange artfully on top of it.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and whoever else we've managed to scare up!" he announces, into what appears to be a shiny magic megaphone. "I bet you're all wondering why I've called you here today..."

A couple of people laugh. Not many.

"Fine, fine. Long story short, there's a Big Gnarly Magic Thing heading for our dimension. Think of it like a meteor shower about to strike, except angrier, and with more tentacles. We calculated that it's going to make landfall right around here -- sucks that it wasn't a less-populated area, but we did catch it in time to evacuate the civilians. And, hey, if we can't avoid blowing up the city, at least it's only Cleveland, right?"

A couple more unenthusiastic laughs, along with a too-loud cheer from Deadpool: "Actually Cleveland! Wooo!"

("...well, it's not any kind of alien signal we can pick up...")

"So, in about five to ten minutes, the sky up there is going to get really freaky. And then the tentacles start, and we need all of you to start punching, or zapping, or laser-ing, or shield-throwing, or...I don't know, whatever the hell Ant-Man does."

That gets some actual mirth out of the crowd, and Sam helpfully yells, "He gets big!"

"Seriously?" complains Strange. "Ant-Man gets big?... you know what, don't explain it, I just realized I don't care. Anyway! T minus five, there's a mall a couple blocks that way if anyone needs a bathroom, and, uh..."

He trails off, scratching his neck.

("...thought someone said the suit was sentient? And he talks to it?")

Without warning, a second energy platform appears right under Marc's feet, pistoning him up off the ground.

Marc snaps into a combat stance, Jake suddenly on red alert --

-- and finally, for once, they don't panic-switch. They're just...both there. Holding the armor steadily on Marc's version, doubly alert, ready for anything.

"Okay, Moon Guy, chill out." Strange waves his hand, and another of those megaphone-shaped spells appears in front of them. "I just gotta ask. What the hell kind of tech do you have in that cowl?"

"...what the fuck," says MarcandJake.

"Oof. We don't have any kid heroes around for this one, do we?" Strange looks around the crowd. "Anybody who's standing next to one, cover their ears."

(Rocket Raccoon puts his paws over the sides of Groot's head. Thor bends almost in half to do the same for Love. Belova tries to do it for Bishop, who groans and kicks her in the shin.)

"Look, it just seems like everyone's heard a different story, and none of them add up," continues Strange. "And I for one am dying of curiosity, and it's my party, so. Could you just take the opportunity to clear it up? Once and for all?"

Deep breath.

Scan the crowd.

Layla knows the whole truth, obviously. So does Wanda, for phenomenal-psychic-powers reasons. So does Wade goddamn Wilson, for who-the-hell-knows reasons.

Sam and Bucky know half of it -- the part where they talk to a cranky invisible god. Thor and the Asgardians too. Shuri isn't here, but it wouldn't be surprising if she's filled the Wakandan soldiers in.

Jen knows the other half -- the part where different Moon Knights can talk inside their shared head. (She's not the only one, but apparently Ms. Marvel isn't on the Sorcerer Supreme's "call in case of world-threatening emergency" list. At least, not yet.)

Lots of people who could say something, here.

And none of them jump in. Nobody makes a single move to blow their cover.

On the contrary: Barnes throws them a short casual salute -- Jen catches their eye and does a serious green nod -- and there's the phantom sensation of Wanda at their side, not breaking into their head, just whispering in their mental ear: "Whatever you say, I will back you up."

He takes another deep breath, and leans into the megaphone.

"Hi, everyone," he says. "I'm Moon Knight -- well, one of the Moon Knights -- and, look, none of us have any kind of tech in the stupid cowl, okay?"

A couple of people actually gasp at that one.

"We're the Avatars of Khonshu, Egyptian god of the moon." Their blended state is already unraveling, but Jake is the one who's given this explanation before, so Marc's still channeling him closely. "If you catch one of us talking to someone nobody else can see or hear? It's usually him. And we usually just...lie about it. Because -- look, is it any surprise that 'oh, I'm talking to the invisible god who sometimes tells me to kill people' tends not to go over well?"

It gets a ripple of genuine laughter.

"Yeah. Exactly. That's the kind of reveal that makes people smile, and nod, and then sneak off to call the nice men in white coats to take you away. Not a fun time! Would not recommend."

That gets less of a reaction. (People are definitely not sure whether it's a joke.)

"I'm...not used to meeting other people who know it's real," adds Marc slowly. "Who take it for granted this stuff is real. I'm still not used to working with -- well, with you! Never in my life thought I'd be in a team-up with people whose reaction to 'I serve Khonshu' ranges from 'sure, that makes sense' to 'oh, hey, I know that guy! Kind of a dick'."

Nobody looks panicked, or disgusted, or ready to ship him off to a psych ward. It's all different shades of "amused" or "relieved" or "proud" (that one's Barnes), or "ooh, that explains so much!" or "sure, whatever, I heard six weirder origin stories than that before breakfast."

"And, uh. One more thing." Marc swallows...his skin under the armor feels cold, jittery...but there's Steven and Jake at his back, siphoning away the panic, holding him steady. "Sometimes we -- the different Moon Knights -- are talking to each other. There's a mental connection thing we can do. It's some kind of telepathy, I think?"

"Okay, no, it can't be telepathy," cuts in Strange. "I would have picked up on that."

Marc drops the connection with Jake to channel Steven -- not the accent this time, just the sass. "Well, geez, excuse me for not knowing the technical terms! We didn't all go to wizard school."

Appreciative cackling all around.

"Look, I do not know how this works, I just do it. Please don't quiz me for details, or I'll probably panic and make something up, and start this whole mess all over again."

Strange looks like he wants to argue some more...

...except that's when a soft red glow fills the air, and a third magic-platform-and-megaphone setup raises Wanda off the ground.

Her voice rings through the parking lot and echoes across the water: "The Moon Knights have a mind-to-mind connection, Stephen. Their protective shields are simply stronger than your listening skills."

(Another telepathic whisper, aimed directly at Steven: "The Stephen was to Strange, not you.")

"Hey, I have great listening skills!" says Strange, crossing his arms. "Ask any of my ex-girlfriends."

"Not this good," says Wanda, eerily calm. "Theirs are...ah..."

She says a phrase in what must be Sokovian.

Barnes, next to her, says something that must be a translation -- Wanda bends over to listen, then straightens up and says, "Yes, of course. Theirs are god-tier."

"Sure. I guess." Strange narrows his eyes at her. "Say, Wanda, where have you been lately? Because when I was passing out invitations for this little get-together, I didn't actually know where to send yours."

Katy gestures something to Shang-Chi, who drops to his knees and makes a step with his hands...boosting Katy up onto Wanda's platform.

She puts an arm around the witch's shoulders and says into the megaphone, loudly, "Wanda has been in magic therapy. Which I'm totally not surprised you don't know about. And, look, is there a rule that 'people with a body count who are working on their redemption arc' aren't welcome at this Avengers assembly? Because I'm pretty sure that's, like, half of you."

Belova doesn't help herself to a spot on Marc's platform, but she mutters, close enough for him to hear, "Yes, but the rest of them are men, so they don't count."

(And Deadpool adds, "They're putting more of a gender balance in the Thunderbolts. Diversity win! Half of our tortured ex-assassins are women!")

"Nobody said she wasn't welcome," says Strange testily. "Who are you and what was your superpower, again?"

"Common sense," says Katy without missing a beat. "Plus I killed a dragon one time. No big."

"Have we moved on from me?" asks Marc hopefully. "And if yes, can you let me down, now?"

"Fine--"

A gray-and-brown blur zooms through the air, lands in a furry heap on top of Strange, digs claws into his velvety robes to hang on, and yells into Strange's megaphone, "Tell them about the threesomes!"

Marc splutters.

Strange flails, trying not to fall over.

The rest of the crowd is split between "suddenly, deeply fascinated" and "trying hard not to crack up."

"I'm not kidding!" shouts Rocket Raccoon, in his cranky, growly voice. "I heard something nobody else did! And nobody believes me, they're starting to think I'm crazy, and it's not fair! You know how not-fair that is! So just come clean, already!"

Recovering...as much dignity as a human can possibly have, when there's a raccoon clinging to their head...Strange announces, "Okay, now I gotta hear this one too."

Marc and company are frozen -- for once, even Jake is drawing a blank on snappy responses -- 

-- when, with a soft elegant leap, Layla jumps up onto the platform beside them.

"Yes, there is a polycule," she says calmly into the megaphone spell. "I am a very lucky woman! And the only thing you bunch of shameless gossips need to know about it is: we are not accepting new members at this time."

"HAH!" yells Rocket, pointing at Marc and Layla while baring a fang-filled grin at a now-bright-red Peter Quill. His voice carries over the clamor of approving laughter, scattered applause, even a couple of cheers and wolf-whistles. 

Marc should shut up and let it end there.

Instead, he finds himself saying, "She thinks she's lucky? Please. Those of you who haven't seen under the mask, just trust me, I married up."

Layla's lips quirk at him. "Who says I was talking about you? Maybe I'm lucky to have the other guy."

"...Fair," says Marc. He can feel Steven blushing, the warmth radiating through his insides, and can't resist adding, "I think we're all lucky to have the other guy."

"All right, all right!" exclaims Strange, finally whisking away the magic megaphone, and lowering them to the ground faster than he really needs to. "We get it, you're disgustingly in love, it's adorable. I am cutting this off now, before you turn half the single people in this crowd into supervillains out of jealousy."

This is the point when, as promised, the sky starts getting freaky.

If Marc had been worried that all this banter would distract them from the actual battle...he shouldn't have been. Nobody misses this.

Everyone shifts into battle stances, drawing their bows and laser-guns and enchanted axes and crescent darts. The waterfront lights up with a rainbow of different magics powering on.

"All right, everyone, showtime!" exclaims Strange. "Incoming in three...two...one...!"