Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Marc sits on the ledge of the building, hunched over and zoned out. The sun rises over the skyscrapers and bounces the new day's light off the windows. A gust of wind blows his cape back, and he’s brought back into the moment around him. The hint of smoke permeating from the city, the songbirds that recently came back, and the revving of cars with people ready to start a new day. The city lives underneath his hunched-over body. Marc feels the energy pulsating around him like a warm blanket that has been tossed over him.

The sound of heels clicking behind him makes Marc’s brain snap to attention. He whips his head around and acknowledges the woman behind him. Adorning a grin, Clea Strange, Doctor Strange’s wife, approaches him. Marc grunts, turning back and placing his head on his hand.

"It’s strange to see you up at this hour," Clea remarks. "I thought you were only on duty for the night?"

Marc sighs and closes his eyes. "Things happen," he breathes out.

What he truly wanted to say was: 1. Get away from me; and 2. Things hadn’t gone well in the past week. Badr died, came back to life, and they got their revenge, but now people were being mind controlled by sound, and there was a direct tie to Zodiac... However, there was no way to get to the man. Dr. Sterman forbade him to come into contact with the man while he was in prison, unless he, himself, was administered into the same one.

"Hard day?" Clea planted herself next to Marc on the ledge. He turns to look at her, noting how the sun illuminates her body to show her complexion under the darkness of her garments. Looking her up and down once again, he realizes her right hand is clenching over an object. Marc tilts his head, nodding to her hand. She furrows her brows in confusion, but then a moment passes and it clicks in her head. "I was going to give this to you." Clea opens her hand. On her palm is a small, simple, golden key. Marc takes it into his hands and looks it over. "I figured since you had a multitude of plants in the House of Shadows—"

"Mission," Marc huffs. He looks away at Clea, observing the scenery around him once again.

"My apologies. I noted that you had many plants in the Mission," Clea corrects herself. "So, I figured I’d give you a key to the Sanctum’s greenhouse."

"Is Strange good with this?" Marc lifts the key again, rubbing it between his fingers.

"Well…" Clea clears her throat. "We’ll get to that point when we get there—it’s just that when we made this greenhouse, both of us thought that it’d be nice to care for a garden. Over time, we got too busy, and now it’s out of control. Most plants are dead, and to be honest, I don’t want to use magic to resurrect them."

"That sounds fair," Marc sighs. "Anything else?"

"Not that I know of," Clea states. She gets up from her position on the ledge and backs away from Marc. "Anytime you want to stop in, enter from the back door and sneak through." Marc nods and folds his fingers over the key. He hears Clea walk away, and when the clicking gets faint, he lets out a long sigh.

Marc looks up at the city—his city, again. The sun is fully up now, and people are bustling around. Cars honk their horns, and the smell of smoke in the air grows stronger. Marc gets up from his spot and heads for the mission, the key to the sanctum still clenched in his fist.

…

Marc stands at the back door, exhausted. His three-piece suit was haphazardly thrown together, as were his bandaging job and the supplies in his duffle bag. If he had any gardening tools with him, it’d be a shock. Marc sighs and jams the key into the door, jostling its lock until it opens.

Tonight had been a horrible night, and quite frankly, he didn’t want to go to the Mission in this state. He wanted to seclude Reese and Soldier from a cranky Spector. He knew they would throw questions like, Had he gotten a good night’s sleep the day before? Answer? No. Had he eaten today? Does Tylenol count? Marc holds his breath as he hears the quiet click of the door unlocking. He swings the door open and steps into the Sanctum.

Marc ignores the growing pit in his stomach as he carefully closes the door behind him. He takes a deep breath as he tiptoes through the main room and takes a sharp left. He walks slowly, heel to toe, as he slips by the door after door until he spots a sign labeling the greenhouse. Marc looks around the hall, seeing nobody, and makes a break for it. He sprints to the door, unlocks it, and throws himself into the room.

Marc spins around and shuts the door. Gasping for breath, he leans his body against the door and focuses on the silence in the room. Turning around, Marc scans the room. He notes a closet door across the entrance, three tables—one on the right, middle, and left of him—and dead plants, in pots, thrown everywhere. He shakes his head and pushes himself off the door. He places his duffle bag next to a small stand on the left side of the room and removes his suit jacket, which he ties around his waist.

Marc instantly gets to work, grabbing pots and uprooting the plants in them. He lets his mind wander off, as it always does while he gardens, and he quickly zones out to his muscle memory of digging up plants and repotting them into better pots.

I wonder how Badr is doing right now... Marc bites his lip. Did he feel responsible for his death? Yeah, he did. It heightened his assurance that everyone around him would be in danger. Nobody was safe around him. Even though it was all because of an accident with Soldier becoming a vampire, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t there when he needed to be. He wasn’t there to stop Soldier’s death. He wasn’t there when his community was held at gunpoint, and for what? So a simple-minded supervillain could get his kicks out of it?

Marc got up, sorting the plants into their special groups according to how much sunlight each of them needed. The plants that needed the most sun would be on the left, where the window was, and so forth.

Did he even want to touch on the nightclub fiasco? Thank goodness Reese knew how to do... whatever she did. Otherwise, it would’ve been a lot bloodier. Even so, Marc would’ve taken responsibility for those actions—for those innocent deaths. Those who went out to dance normally were taken down by a simple song and turned into merciless monsters. How could someone do that?

Toying with people's minds just like— Marc fumbles with the pot in his hands, catching it before the possibility of it shattering on the ground. He takes a deep breath, places it on a table, and goes back to work.

He knew well that he was on a watch list because of Khonshu. His wife and child were across the ocean from him because of what he did to appease Khonshu. Marc forsook the god only for him to get another avatar in which Khonshu could rinse and repeat the same actions… But in prison.

...He couldn’t help but slightly resent Badr for his unrequited faith in the god, but he couldn’t argue with the man. He had the same faith before, but with time comes change.

Why did he follow through with what Khonshu said? He had judged his decisions thoroughly, and even though he didn’t like them, he followed the god. A soldier, he described himself to Dr. Sterman. He was a sheep to the slaughter, on his knees, waiting for anyone to come away and tell him what to do. He would conform and do anything, and he would do it well. He would lose his entire family, life, and friends to be a sheep. If he couldn’t dictate his life from the beginning, why start then?

Marc bit his lip, feeling his throat tighten. He grabs a pot, throws it onto the ground, and plops down.

Maybe that’s why he liked gardening. He couldn’t keep his family or friends alive and well, so he adopted different strategies to do so. He would grow plants and do a goddamn good job of it. He would keep them alive because, unlike people, plants have a method to their madness. Plants don’t call you schizophrenic. Plants don’t yell at you for what you’ve been forced to do. Plants don’t judge your actions thoroughly. Plants stay alive if you take proper care of them. They live, sit, and look beautiful. Unlike people, plants don’t care what you’ve done. They prosper and reward you with beauty and serenity when you care for them.

Whatever you do, when you care for plants, they never leave you.

Marc lets a shuddering sigh and looks up towards the window. He squints his eyes, realizing how bright it suddenly became in the room. My G-d, how long has it been? What did I do to the place? Marc shields his eyes from the sunrise peeking through the windows. He clears his throat and looks down at himself, noting his disgusting gloves and stained pants. The pot in front of him lays empty as the plant inside got, somewhere in his gardening frenzy, uprooted and thrown onto the ground.

He picks up the plant, places it in the pot, and starts patting it down. He opens a nearby water bottle and lets the water sprinkle onto the plant, seeing as the drops catch onto the leaves and the rest seep into the dry soil. He sighs and places the empty bottle next to the pot.

What am I even doing with my life? Marc asks himself, looking around the room trying to find a clock. He finds none and stands. He picks the pot up, places it among the nearby tulips, and looks at his work with a sense of... pride? Again, what AM I doing with my life?

Marc picks up the bottle and shoves it into his pants pocket. Spinning around, he pats his pockets, trying to find the key. Feeling nothing but the bottle in his pocket, he whips his body back around, scanning the place he was sitting in. Dirt and empty pots, he scrunches his nose and shakes his head. I don’t have time for this, he thinks as he steps around the greenhouse, looking under every pot and table in the room.

I shouldn’t have even come, Marc groans. I should have made Mission eat the key... or something of the sort. Can Mission eat metal? He shakes his head. He now stands in the middle of the room, nowhere closer to his goal. He plants his hands on his hips as he lets his head hang low. A defeated sigh comes out of his lungs, accepting his fate of once again angering Strange.

Marc makes his way back to where he first began and sits back down. He leans against a wall and crosses his legs. He looks around the greenhouse, noting how much of a mess it is. Pots are broken, plants are thrown everywhere, and empty water bottles are sprinkled around the ground. On top of this, he's exhausted, hungry, and defeated. He brings his hand to his face, feeling the coarse dirt against it.

Where’s…? Marc pulls his hand back, blinking a few times before shooting to his feet. He manages to get a few steps into his search before the greenhouse door swings wide open. Marc whips his head around, frozen in fear, as both Stranges stand in the doorway. Marc feels his body unfreeze as the door closes as quickly as it opened. He takes this time to scramble around the greenhouse, finding his bag, mask, and key under a tucked-away stand.

Without question, he grabs his duffle bag, pulls on his equally dirty mask, and swipes the key. He slings the bag onto his shoulder and heads for the—albeit closet—door as fast as possible. He was sure he could find an exit somewhere inside. As adrenaline pumps through his veins, he grabs the handle, but a voice stops him from continuing. "Are you leaving so soon?" Clea’s voice rings out behind him, and Marc’s body once again tenses up.

"I thought it’d be nice if you were to join us for breakfast. However, I get how you’re a busy man....” Clea coos while leaning against the doorway. Marc lets out another sigh, letting his arms go limp beside him. He spins around, only to hear a snort come out of her. "Moon Knight, I implore you to take off that mask. How long have you been gardening here?" She laughs, approaching Marc. He takes a step back as Clea reaches for his neck, grabbing the folds of the end of his mask. She pulls it over his face, and she grins. "Much better, I’d say."

"How so?" Marc inquires, eyebrows furrowing.

"Oh, no, you see..." Clea pulls the mask up, and Marc, finally seeing the giant dirt stains all over it, places his fingers around his scrunched-up nose. "I think you took my actions wrong... I was saving you from embarrassment, and this—" She gestures toward the entire greenhouse. "—cannot go on Wong’s ‘who is in debt to me’ list."

"He has a list?" Marc asks, folding his arms.

"Of course he does," Clea scoffs. "However, this time both of our names would be added to it. I wasn’t supposed to give you a key to the sanctum… Bad thinking on my part." She grins, placing the mask across Marc’s duffle bag.

"I’m surprised it took this long for you to realize that he has a list of everyone’s debt," Jake pipes in. Marc huffs, placing the duffle bag on the ground.

Did you know? Marc rubs the key between two of his fingers, looking down at it. I don’t find you and Wong to be close enough to know he had a list.

"I have my ways," Jake harps. Marc frowns, ignoring Jake's vague comment and realizing the silence between him and Clea. She’s planted herself in front of him, crossing her arms and looking at him up and down. To her, Marc looks like a mess. His once-white gloves are stained with dirt, and his three-piece suit is now a one-piece due to the loss of his vest and jacket. She assumes the two pieces of clothing are in the duffle bag he carries, but judging by the zoned-out look and foggy eyes, she’s not confident. Marc feels like a mess. He feels like his insides have been gutted and flipped inside out. He places a free hand on his stomach, checking to make sure his body is still there. His feet go fuzzy as he finally opens his hand to reveal the key in his palm.

Clea looks from Marc to the key before grabbing Marc's hand and pushing it back into a fist. She puts a finger between her lips and smiles.

"Keep it." Clea steps back. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” Marc nods as she places her hands on her hips and purses her lips. "No offense, but those won’t do." She points to his clothes, waving her hand around.

"What’s wrong with it?" Marc blurts out, clearly aware of what is wrong. He shakes his head, embarrassed he just asked that. Strange would more than likely vomit with one look at him. Clea sighs, waving her hand around as orange sparks float around. A small circle appears above her fingertips as new clothes drop into her hands. She waves the portal away and hands over the new clothes.

"I’ll see you in five minutes in the main room," Clea says as she approaches the doorway. She turns back to look at him once more before slipping out of the room and silently closing the door behind her.

Marc stands still, not knowing how to react. He looks at the clean clothes in his hands: a white button-up and pants. He feels a smile form on his face as he places his clothes on a table and begins to strip.

Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea…

Chapter Text

Marc quietly exits the greenhouse. He rolls up the sleeves of the sweater Clea gave him and adjusts the collar wrapped around his neck. He was grateful for the clothes not being made of silk, as he feared. The way silk folded on his skin was too delicate and light. He always preferred clothes made of spandex. It felt tight against his skin, like a sheet wrapped around his body. Cotton was his second favorite; the roughness made him remember that he was wearing something. He pushes those memories of fighting in his boxers far, far away, and continues down the hallway.

The hall sways underneath him as he manages to make his way into the main room. Clea stands there, tall and proud. She holds two tea plates while managing to carry a folded tablecloth on her arm. Both tea plates hold a tea cup on them. The string of a random tea bag hangs on the outside of the cup, wrapping itself around the handle. Marc grumbles and prays it's not sleepytime tea. He knows that it’ll mess with the painkillers he took before coming here. He places that concern on the back burner of his mind and levels his shoulders, looking Clea in the eyes.

"Follow me, please." Clea smiles before turning around and heading off. Marc rubs his eyes, following Clea through winding halls.

After a while of walking, Clea abruptly stops. She gestures to the room in front of them, motioning for him to enter. A courtyard lies in front of them, laid out with beautiful stone pathing and hedges that make Marc’s heart skip a beat. He swiftly exits the hall with a sudden pep in his step and enters the yard. As soon as he does, the sun beams down on him. He flinches from the sudden exposure to light and shields his eyes.

Goddamn sun, Marc grumbles. He pushes his excitement away and quickly trots up to the middle of the yard, where two seats and a metal, tripod dining table are. Marc slips into the metal chair on the right of the table, folding his hands and placing them on his legs. He crosses his legs as they bob up and down subconsciously, shaking the lower half of his body.

The aroma of flowers swirls around the courtyard. The metal designs on the table fold into each other like young daylilies. The chairs are made of the same pattern; however, they have cushions wrapped tightly around their legs, allowing soft padding to sit on. He notes the cobble pathing, which is laid at every entrance. It makes a cross on the ground, and in the middle of where the paths meet is where he sits. Beyond the cobblestone paths are large gardens. Hedges lined each path, and beyond him, he could see vines crawling up the poles that held the dark, wooden walls together. The windows were without glass, and the only way to enter the yard was through arches overgrown with vines, a rose blooming past every inch.

He could see the light bounce off the checkered-patterned floor from the hall he just exited. The dark wood continued on the inside, accompanied by bookshelves and podiums holding small amulets and statues encased in glass. The Sanctum always looked partially like a museum to the system. Marc was pretty sure at least one of them thought so.

Clea swept herself into his view; the china shone in the light, making the golden rim that wrapped around the plates noticeable. Marc shifted his position and reached out to grab the two tea plates. She quickly handed them over and snapped the tablecloth over the table, letting it go mid-snap. She let it float down into position, watching it gracefully fold over the table. Marc sets the tea plates down on the table, one on Clea’s side and the other in front of him.

Clea rests herself in her seat, snapping her fingers. Purple electricity explodes on the tablecloth. Marc scoots backward, letting out a gasp of surprise. The electricity snaps and crackles, climbing up the table and meeting in the middle. It fizzles out, leaving multiple plates with various pastries on them. Marc places a hand on his stomach, feeling the aching pain start again.

"Apologies if I scared you; it’s easier to get the food here by teleportation... However, the spell normally breaks the tea set," Clea comments. She leans backward, grabbing her tea cup and bringing it to her lips. She blows, letting the steam waft through the air. "If I teleport the cloth, it isn’t set right. My mother would kill me if she saw a not-perfectly-set tablecloth."

Marc hums, grabbing his plate and piling on the food. He puts his plate in front of him, trying to figure out if it's right to start eating or not. He always felt a pang of guilt whenever someone wasn’t eating, and he would nag them about it. However, right now, he felt like his grasp on reality was slipping. He couldn’t assess certain patterns of speech and language that would be easy for an ex-governmental agent. He felt as if walls were closing in, and all he could do was curl up and let it happen. He yawns and takes a bite of a muffin, closing his eyes and taking a breath.

"How is the mission doing?" Clea inquires, taking a cannoli and biting into it.

"Well." Marc mumbles. He shoves the rest of the muffin in his mouth and manages to swallow. He coughs, feeling it partially get caught in his throat. "How are you doing with the new nine-to-five schedule?"

Clea laughs, covering her mouth with one hand and lifting her tea cup with the other. She takes her hand from her mouth and wraps it around the cup, folding her fingers together. "I’ve adapted; however, others have not. I can say that Bat’s isn’t keen on the idea of people from the general public coming into the Sanctum every day." Clea states, grinning from ear to ear. "It’s exhausting sometimes, but we’ve managed to balance our lives and work very well."

"That’s great to hear," Marc responds. He grabs another muffin quickly, ignoring the food on his plate. Clea watches him closely, her lips parted. She clears her throat, takes a sip of tea, and places her elbows on the table. She leans forward and raises her eyebrows at the ravenous man in front of her.

"How are you doing?" Clea bites her bottom lip, averting her eyes from Marc's glance.

"I’m doing great," Marc states, blankly, without hesitation. He looks Clea up and down, his lips puckering in thought.

He notes her stature and how she leans back against her chair as she asks that question, putting distance between the two of them. Her eyes look somewhere else, refusing to look at him. He cocks his eyebrows, sighs, and places his half-eaten muffin on his plate. He folds his arms and drags the chair closer to the table, closing the space between them.

"That’s wonderful news," Clea stammers. Her eyes dart around frantically as she places her teacup down on the table.

"What do you want to ask?" Marc grumbles. He looks up at Clea, frowning as she lets out a sigh of defeat.

"Please do not take offense, but are you able to get to the mission safely after this meal?" Clea asks. She places her hands on her legs and softens her expression. "I’m not sure if we have an open room to stay in. However, we do have blankets and pillows. You could always make yourself comfortable in the greenhouse." Clea explains softly. She smiles, "I’m pretty sure no one has been in that room for years since you've entered it."

"How could you ignore the plants in the greenhouse if you have a courtyard like this?" Marc inquires, gesturing to the gardens placed around him.

"These plants are growing under a spell," Clea confesses. She takes a sip of tea, closing her eyes. "Now it is you who is avoiding a question."

"Well, I…" Marc sighs, rubbing his eyes. Steven had been out since they entered the Sanctum, and he knew those few remarks from Jake were all he had left in him. It was late for all of them, and he didn’t know if he could make it back to the mission before passing out.

Marc nervously fiddles with his hands. He claws at the dirt under his fingernails, digging into the crevices until it hurts. Clea glares at him with a fierceness like that of a mother scolding her kid.

Would it be sad if he said, "I can’t make it to the mission"? He knew from Clea's glare that he couldn’t say that he could make it to the mission. However, he was on the fence about how to say that he couldn’t make it.

If Diatrice heard, she would make a joke about how old he was getting.

Marc bites his lip and sighs. He stops clawing at his fingernails and nods. "Can we set something up in the greenhouse?"

"Of course," Clea says, placing her teacup down. "Are you done eating?"

"Yeah," Marc nods. "I am; thank you for the meal."

"Anytime you need it." Clea sweeps herself off of the chair. She stands, offering a hand to Marc. Marc reluctantly takes it, dragging himself up onto his feet. Clea slips her hand from his and places it on his back, leading him out of the courtyard and through the long, twisty halls.

The two of them end up in the greenhouse. Marc’s pretty sure he fell asleep halfway, for he doesn’t remember most of the walk to the room. Clea leaves her hand on the door handle, placing her feet in between the hall and the door. Marc blinks at her sleepily, giving her two thumbs up in his tired, delusional state. She smiles, folding her arms.

"I’ll be grabbing blankets and pillows. I implore you to clean up and pick a spot." Clea exits the room partially before quickly spinning back around and pointing at Marc. "I’ll be back in a few minutes. Do not leave this room."

Easy, Marc nods. He watches as the door swings shut and closes him inside, leaving him alone. He yawns and scans the room, looking for any spot that would be relatively comfortable.

After a bit of walking around, he manages to pick a spot underneath a table that isn’t too dirty for greenhouse standards. He quickly crouches down and picks up a few potted plants around the spot, moving them over to the other side of the room in no particular order. He’ll fix it up later.

His mind clicks the pieces together slowly, but finally, he realizes that he wants to come back. He loves the rocks climbing up the walls and the large glass windows. He loves how the plants hang from the ceilings, already growing from their pots. He loves how the moss makes its home jammed between every rock, flourishing even where it’s not supposed to be. He loves how cold the floor feels and the hardness of it. He’s always been a sucker for hard surfaces. He trails his fingers against the tables, feeling the carvings in the wood. It looks like small streams to him, flowing adjacent to each other and creating something beautiful.

The door creaks open, bringing Marc back to reality. He focuses, noting the large pile of blankets and pillows Clea drags in. She lets the door slam close as she leans the pile against a table, smiling at Marc.

"Take whatever you want." Clea tilts her head to the heap she carries. "It’s your bed, not mine."

Marc yawns out a silent agreement, grabbing the pile from her hands and placing it next to his spot. Clea lets out a laugh, watching as Marc meticulously throws down blankets and pillows underneath a table.

"Are you alright for the day?" Clea asks as Marc unfolds the blankets, patting them down. Marc grabs a pillow, looks down at it, and tosses it next to the wall. Clea steps next to him, crouching beside him. He continues to work, not registering anything around him. Clea places a hand on his head, ruffling his hair, before getting up and silently exiting the room.

Marc yawns, finishing off the pile. He barely takes a second to look at his work before kicking his shoes off and plopping down into the bed. He unbuttons the button-up underneath his sweater, pulling it through the top and out from underneath the sweater. He tosses it on the ground and yawns.

Pulling blankets over himself, it doesn’t take long for sleep to finally give way to his mind. He floats between the layers of awake and the depths of his mind, slowly being pulled under the waters. Once submerged, he finally falls asleep. His expression is soft, his lips parted, and his body curled up. He tugs the blankets close to him, sleeping peacefully.

Chapter Text

He drifts in and out of sleep like floating along a rough sea, dipping above and below the waters. He feels his body shifting around, readjusting the pillows tossed around him and tugging at the blankets.

Marc’s head peeks out of the water, and his eyes peel open for a brief second. He makes out a glowing, ghost-like animal lying on him. He folds his hand onto the animal’s body before his eyes close again, dipping underneath the water.

Marc trots down the sidewalk, his brother in tow. The crisp air bites at their skin, making both boys regret not bringing jackets.

"Why are we going down to the park?" Randall whines. "It's too early for this."

Marc spins around to face his brother, raising his eyebrows at his distraught face. He continues to walk, albeit backward and in a shaky, zig-zag pattern. 

The Chicago suburbs had always looked plain to Marc. The same house, one after the other, until the road splits off into different directions, and it repeats. At least some people spruced their homes with flowers, but eventually, those died off, leaving nothing but empty flower pots and dead leaves scattered along their porches.

However, the park? Now that place was interesting. Something was always going on. Food vendors were always lined up along the sidewalks, and the flowers were starting to open, a bright and colorful world contrasted with the dull and plain one of the suburbs. 

Plus, getting his brother outside meant he could spend more time with him, outside of their parent's view, before he left for camp.

"War!" Marc exclaims. "We barely get to play it anymore after you fell out of that tree. Three months ago, Rand, three months ago!"

Randall lets out another ear-piercing whine. Marc spins around again and grins, spotting trees climbing past the horizon.

The weight of the animal shuffles around on Marc's legs. He lifts his hand to allow the animal to move. It drags its body further onto his chest and settles down once again. He hears the animal sneeze before he falls back into the water.

Marc digs out a few bucks from his pocket. He sifts through them on his palm, grabs the correct amount, and then gives it to the food vendor. The guy in the window— tall, dark-skinned, with curly hair and a white and blue striped uniform— takes the money from his hand and swiftly counts it. He places it on the counter, grabs the two sandwiches in the back, and hands them to Marc.

"Have a good day!" He smiles. The man swipes the money he placed down and heads for the back of his truck.

Marc turns to face his brother. Both of their pants are smothered in dirt and grass stains. He smirks, remembering how Randall ate dirt mid-battle. Dirt is slathered across his brother's face, accompanied by a bruise lining his eye. Randall grins and snatches his sandwich from Marc’s hands.

"I won that round," he states between bites. Marc rolls his eyes and sits down on a nearby bench. His brother eagerly sits down beside him and crosses his legs.

Marc feels the weight come off him again. He hears its claws scrape against the floor as it slowly exits the room. Marc rolls onto his side, swaddling himself in the blankets around him.

Marc’s lungs ache for air as he sprints into the woods, abandoning his brother. His heart quickens as he rounds a corner and plants himself behind a tree. He plucks a twig off of a branch and braces for an attack.

He loved playing war with Randall, but their father hated it. Both of them would run away from each other for at least a minute, then search for the other. Anything could happen in the game. Marc smirks, remembering the time Randall almost broke his leg falling out of a tree. Their father had yelled at Marc when he dragged Randall back home, saying how it was irresponsible for him to let his younger brother get hurt. Marc scoffs, his gut churning with a mixture of anxiety and anger.

As if his father understood.

He scans the perimeter, noting every instance of movement around him. The leaves hang on for dear life, being pulled by the wind. It’s like the leaves look down on how the grass dances with the breeze, wishing it could be them. Instead, they get tossed around like nothing. The trees tolerate this abuse, not being able to do anything. Their bark is split into small strips, yet they stand tall and proud. The trees don't comment on how people break branches and twigs off of them every day. They stay silent, never falling. Even in death.

Marc's eyes narrow, noticing something white between the foliage. He feels his heart skip a beat, recognizing it immediately.

He stares at the figure in the woods. The figure— Marc called it the Birdman—was tall. His head was a giant raven's skull, floating above the three-piece suit it wore. It was like something out of a movie to the boy. Marc felt his body freeze as he stared at the Birdman, watching as it spied on him from deep in the woods. He could hear Randall calling out his name, getting closer and closer.

It didn’t matter anymore, this game of war. The Birdman is back.

Marc feels the ground shake below him. He squirms around, tangling his body further into the pile of blankets. He faintly hears the sound of things shattering and shaking violently on the tables around him. The sudden vibrations coursing through his body make the water thick like molasses. He tries to pull himself out and figure out what’s going on, but he’s unable to force his eyes open. His head pounds and his body begs not to move. A wave goes over his head, and he’s pulled back into his mind.

Marc skips down the stairs, jumping off the last two and landing on his feet. His bag bobs against his back, hurting his shoulders. It’s heavy, but he doesn’t care. He gets to leave home for a type of camp— one that’ll help him get better, his dad says. He runs over to the table, swings his bag onto the table, and hops into a seat.

His father sways from side to side behind his mother, his hands delicately placed on her waist. She tilts her head backward, laughing as she stirs a pan full of eggs. Randall sits across from him, scribbling furiously on a blank piece of paper with a pack of colored pencils beside him.

Marc refuses to admit that he’ll miss his brother.

Marc hears the floorboards being torn up. They creak and scream as they're pulled from the ground. He feels a forceful tug at him, pulling him somewhere.

As Marc rests his hand on the car door, Randall tugs at his arm. He turns, looking at his brother.

"You’ll come back for the summer, right?" Randall whines. He grabs his arms and sways back and forth.

"You can visit me. We won't be that far apart." Marc laughs. However, the look Randall gives his father makes his gut twist. It’s full of uncertainty— like his father had said otherwise.

"I’ll see you soon, then." Randall gives him one last smile before his father guides Marc into the backseat.

He hears the car door slam shut and—

The smell of ash overloads his senses. Marc coughs, pushing himself off the ground. Pain sears through his body. He forces his eyes open, finally pulling himself above the waves. 

The sun hangs high in the sky, looming over him. He feels heat prick his skin, and sweat beads on his forehead. He hears Steven audibly cringe in the back of his mind.

A vast forest surrounds him. A thick layer of rock and ash covers everything in sight. Regardless, every tree stands tall. They creak as the wind hits them, swaying back and forth. Grass pokes out of the rock, growing even in harsh conditions. Various items are littered against the ground: wood, glass, broken pottery, and a duffle bag.

He narrows his eyes toward his bag. A bioluminescent dog, the animal he vaguely recalls being on him while he was half asleep, tugs at the straps. He pauses, looks at Marc, and then continues.

"Hey, hey—" Marc stumbles over to the dog, a basset hound, he notes. He drops to the ground, tugging the straps out of its mouth.

"What do you have in here?" The dog barks.

Marc blinks. How am I not shocked that he can talk?

"Things." Marc spits it out. He unzips the bag, scrounging through it to see what’s inside. Even he lost track of what was inside. He refuses to admit that to someone he just met.

"Vague, but okay." The dog huffs. "My name is Bats."

"Marc," he grumbles. Two water bottles, painkillers, a replacement mask, and a few packs of peanut butter crackers— Jake and Steven insisted on having them. He's pretty sure the body has anemia, but is anyone willingly going to go to a hospital? G-d no— a stake, a switchblade, a bag of fake mustaches— Jake, again— a laser pointer— don't ask — Jake's cab keys, his phone, his truncheons, sewing supplies, several bags of seeds, and crumbled pieces of paper.

Feeling his headache spread to the back of his head, he makes a mental note to take painkillers later as he tugs his switchblade out from the bottom of the bag and zips it closed. He slings it over his shoulder and stands up. A coat of ash follows him, stuck to his pants.

"Not much for conversation, are you?" Bats trot up beside Marc. They both start walking further into the forest.

Marc hums and ducks under a tree branch. Fleeting memories from his mercenary days were rushing back into his mind like a tidal wave. The weeks where they, he and Jean-Paul, spent stalking through the woods— those he missed. The wide grin Frenchie would give him whenever they would complete what they were paid for—that’s one thing he missed about the man: his smile.

Nostalgia stabs through Marc's heart. He ignores the pain and continues onward. What he was looking for right now was water. A stream, pond, anything. From there, he'll figure out a game plan for everything else.

…and then find out how the hell he got here… With a talking ghost dog. 

Named Bats.

Goddamnit.

Chapter Text

Marc takes his switchblade and pierces the tree. Dragging it downward, he makes a long line and then stops. Then next to it, he repeats the process, making tally marks within the tree.

It took the two of them two days to find a stream. Marc finds that great, but Bats... not so much. Although he’s a ghost, the heat during the day has been getting to him. Surprisingly, Marc hadn’t been affected as much. He enjoyed the heat as much as the cold, but Bats was the complete opposite. He said that he "was a specter" and was "not supposed to feel this hot". Marc found it slightly amusing.

Marc sighs, takes the blade out of the tree, and plops down at the base of it. He throws his bag off his shoulders and leans back, enjoying the brief moment of tranquility. Marc fiddles with the blade in his hands as he watches Bats bound through the water. He could speak for everyone when he said that it was nice to get off their feet. They had been walking for the majority of the past two days, dehydrated and starving.

Marc was surprised at how many non-poisonous foods there were in this world. Both Jake and Steven bantered back and forth about whether or not what they were consuming was edible or not, but to Marc, it didn’t matter. He did this in his mercenary days, and he can do it again.

The feeling of clicking back into the groove of his mercenary years was odd to him. It felt right, yet so wrong at the same time.

He’d have to mention that to Dr. Sterman when he got back to Earth… if he got back to Earth.

Bats barks and trots out of the stream. He spits something out on the ground and sits down, letting his tongue hang out of his jaw. Marc squints, pocketing the blade and getting up from the ground. He approaches Bats quickly, halting his tracks when he sees the fish at his feet.

The fish flaps against the ground. Its body contorts and twists, trying to get itself back into the water. Marc swiftly grabs the fish with his hands, clutching its body between his palms and pinning its pectoral fins down. He pulls the blade from his pocket and slices through the fish. It slowly stops squirming in his hands, and he continues holding it until it stops.

Marc grins and, hesitantly, places his hand on Bats’ head. He ruffles Bats’ fur, his cheeks hurting from his grinning. Bats barks happily, dropping and rolling on the ground. It’s a small celebration for nothing. It’s sweet and beautiful. The stress and anxiety he had been feeling over the past few days melt down into nothing at the sight of Bats being prideful of his catch.

He could get used to this.

"She’s terrifying when she’s mad!" Bats declares. Marc stifles a laugh and grabs hold of a large berry on a tree. He tosses it into his makeshift sack made with his extra clothes and continues walking along the stream's bank. "A storm of magic! You should’ve seen her in the Shrouded Bazaar... I thought she was going to march right up to the blasphemy cartel then and there and destroy them! Not, uh, that she couldn’t do that... but…"

Marc grabs another berry hanging from a tree and plops it into the sack. He stops, twists the top, and slings it over his shoulder. Bats stops beside him, looking up at him quizically.

"Break time?" He pants, and Marc swears he sees Bats' jowls twist into a smile. 

Take the break, Spector. Jake warns in the back of his mind. He feels Jake sit up straighter at the club and grasp his drink tighter. You both need it.

Marc shrugs, throws his things against a tree, and drops to the ground. He isn’t going to argue with Jake. He crosses his legs, and Bats joins him beside him, pressing his body close against him.

See? This spot is perfect. Streams runnin’ past, birds high in the sky, the moon glowing over us—it’s peaceful. Jake comments. Marc can’t disagree with him. Even though he woke up a few hours ago, he can feel drowsiness fogging his mind.

The fact that this place is so peaceful is slightly nauseating to Marc. He’s used to a city breathing and living every hour. However, here, everything is silent. The forest continues to live and thrive, but everything else is quiet. It feels too tranquil.

Knock it off, will you? Jake elbows his side. Enjoy it.

Marc sighs, places a hand against Bats’ neck, and looks up to the sky.

"After I helped Clea out, what happened afterward?"

He makes another tally next to the three already carved into the tree. He leaves the switchblade in the wood and grabs the stake from his duffle bag on the ground, which Bats sleeps against. He quickly snaps a branch off of a tree and ties the stake around the tip of the branch.

He steps over Bats and approaches the stream.

Marc stops at the edge, rolling up his pants and kicking his shoes off. He peels his socks off his feet and throws them where his shoes landed.

He slowly maneuvers his way onto the rocks. Grabbing onto the slightest feeling of grip and then propelling himself forward. He stops when he reaches the middle of the stream and starts eyeing the water.

Fish maneuver around the rocks he stands on. He’s lucky he hasn’t fallen in yet. He’s pretty sure their fins would take off a few chunks of skin, but he’s willing to take hits to get breakfast.

He pulls the spear upwards and chucks it into the stream. It stabs through the ground, getting caught on the rocks underneath. He grabs hold of the handle, and as he does so, the rocks slip from underneath his feet.

Marc gasps and falls face-first into the stream. The water pushes against his body ferociously. It drives itself against his thighs and forearms as he leans back and goes to grasp his shin. The cold water muddles the pain searing through his leg as he instantly puts pressure on the wound.

" Dammit! " Marc scoffs. He groans and flings his head backward, gritting his teeth. He takes a sharp inhale and lets a long exhale out.

The stars above him blink in and out of space. The moon is bright and blinding. Their light shimmers on the water rushing past him, allowing him to make out the stream being stained by dark red colors. He holds his breath, stops applying pressure, takes his hand off, and looks at it.

Rich, red blood trickles off his hand. After a while of staring, it beads up and falls into the stream. The blood swiftly stains the water, piercing through it like a gunshot and getting carried far away.

Marc’s breath hitches, getting stuck in his throat. In an instant, his mind switches into a panicked overdrive. In a frenzy, he pushes himself up and stands there. He watches as the blood falls down his leg, oozing into the water around him. He drags himself to the edge of the stream, dropping himself onto the ground. His body aches, his chest feels heavy, and his arms are weak. His vision blurs, and it feels like the world around him dissipates.

Through his muffled senses, he hears bats bark and run up to his side. He sees the dog drops beside him, rolling around on his body and exposing his stomach. Marc lays a hand on Bats' side, biting his lip.

The ball of stress that’s been caught inside his chest explodes.

He isn’t one to run or hide. He’s one to keep going headfirst, no matter what. He died before and stood back up. That's why he’s alive. He needs to stand back up, but he can’t.

This is a common feeling when placed in situations outside of comfort zones. Marc feels Steven pop up beside him. Even though his voice is businesslike and blunt, it reminds him that he isn’t alone in this matter. He doesn’t know if that’s soothing or not. That’s what Dr. Sterman said, correct?

Marc nods. 

These few days have been very stressful for you, the body, and the system in general. In their headspace, Marc can see Steven lean back in his chair. He folds his arms and sighs. Do you think you are the only one who misses them? Who misses those in the Mission? Do you believe I do not miss Reeses’ ramblings on who got eliminated in The Bachelor that week? Do you not think Commander misses Soldier whenever he gets on a tangent about Star Wars? Or do you refuse to believe that this feeling can exist? The feeling of wanting others?

Marc doesn’t know. The words get strangled inside his throat, and he furrows his brows.

He wishes he could see Greer right now. She would sit beside him, and they’d talk it out. How she formed words and put them in such a manner that articulated how she felt—that’s what he wants. He wants to explain everything and make it better, but on the flip side, he wants to hide. He wants to show up at Greer’s and watch VHS tapes with her and William. He wants to curl up with her and forget about how awful the world is. He wants to run.

However, he can’t run. He can’t curl up under Badr’s desk and binge-watch awful reality TV shows to pass the time. Reese can’t pull him out of his brooding with talks about the new fashion trends going on, and Soldier can’t geek out about the new computers coming out soon, all because he isn’t there.

The fact that he has so much to lose now hits him like a truck. It forces the tears pricking at his eyes to roll down his temples.

Words are difficult; I understand. It feels like Steven is wrapping his arms around his body. He pulls Marc in close, and Marc can’t help but cling to the businessman. It feels like a mixture of him and Steven fronting as they sit together, arms tangled around one another. He hasn’t done this with any of his headmates in such a long time, and it feels nice. You don’t have to say anything, Marc. I know the answer.

Marc nods and closes his eyes.

Chapter Text

Clea brings the bowl up to her lips. She takes a sip of the lukewarm water, brings it down to level with her chest, and takes a deep breath. The crisp air freezes the insides of her nostrils.  

Both of them had been working hard over the past few days. Since they’ve figured out magic doesn’t work as well in this realm—you can thank the Inua—they’ve been working extra hard to make a sustainable living. Not knowing how long they’d be here was one of her husband's concerns.

A fire flows through the wind in front of them. Fish stuck onto twigs are balanced against the circle of rocks, cooking. Clea knows it’ll upset both of their stomachs, but eating something is better than nothing. That is what Stephen has been saying for days. It has been getting on her nerves.

Stephen settles down next to her. The cloak of levitation swipes any ash away from around him before it curls a portion of itself over her back, following Stephen's arm, which is wrapped tightly around her waist. He brings her close, and she leans her head onto his shoulder. Her husband's embrace isn’t as comforting as she once thought. His shoulders are rigid, lips sewn shut, and his eyes dart around their surroundings. She feels the anxiety oozing off of him, infecting the air like a disease.

It makes her uneasy about what she knows and refuses to say, let alone acknowledge. By the crook of his neck, she looks up at the two moons in the sky. One of them, a waning crescent, lies higher in the sky. The other is at full, dipping below the trees.

Clea knows Moon Knight is out there. The knowledge makes her stomach churn, flickering like the fire before them. Fear clamps down on her core, and she’s brought back to when she allowed him to stay—

She watches the man scoff down muffins like there’s no tomorrow. Quite frankly, it’s perturbing for her. Crumbs fly everywhere, and he keeps going like there’s no tomorrow.

Clea realized pretty quickly that he was more sickly than she ever thought. Under the sun, and not under a suit, it allowed her to see him. She's surprised that Moon Knight isn’t as pale as she believed. His skin, to her, is like ivory from an elephant's tusk, yet not as smooth. She can see the calluses that have forever formed on his fingers. Sadly, the paleness defined his more sickly features. His eye bags are sunken into his skin, just like his old scars; One draws itself from his cheek to his forehead and pierces through his eye and eyebrow. It ensures that hair will never grow back on that faint, faint line.

A gust of wind passes them, and she’s brought back into the present, remembering her husband by her side. Stephen turns his body and takes Clea’s jaw into his right hand. He leans closer, bringing her head up towards his lips. Their eyes meet, and Clea stares into his big, square gray eyes. He gives a small peck on her lips and retracts back. However, he keeps his hand firmly cupping her cheek, brushing his thumb against her skin.

She’s always found her husband beautiful. She loves to mess up his slicked-back hair to see him pull it back again. The grey only suited him better than full black. It showed his age, and she enjoyed it. Not to say that she wasn’t attracted to how Stephen looked in his younger years. However, he looked more lovely like this. She couldn’t explain it or think about it too long. It’d make her heart stop in her chest, and she’d have to start it back up by herself.

"How—"

“—are you doing?” It comes out unexpectedly. She bites her lip, hides her eyes from his, and prays he doesn’t realize how bad she feels for the man.

"I’m doing great." Moon Knight says it blatantly. She watches in her peripheral vision as he looks her up and down like a hawk. His gaze feels like a scanner, running over her body and calculating every movement like a math problem in his head. He puckers his lips, and Clea feels like a deer caught in headlights. He’s solved the math problem.

"Dear?" Her husband tilts his head, albeit not innocently. Clea knows when the man is hiding what he wants to say. It's the subtle tilt of his head, softer expression, and dilated eyes that cause alarm bells to ring throughout her mind. However, she knows he'll stay silent until proven accurate. Clea knows how he works. She's lived with him for... how long now? Years? "Is there something on your mind?"

"I need to take a walk." Clea waves her husband's hand off her cheek. She slides out of his space and jumps onto her feet. Clea opens her mouth to elaborate, perhaps throwing an apology in there, but the words get caught in her throat. She grits her teeth in frustration and heads off into the woods. 

"That’s wonderful news," Clea feels herself stumble through her words. She places her teacup on the table and tries calming her eyes, which are darting around frantically. It’s unconventional and aggravating to her. She wants to ask if he could stay here another night but fears her husband's wrath. 

Of course, she loves him, but she has to admit how badly the man holds grudges. It isn’t pretty.

"What do you want to ask?"

She shoves a branch out of her way. She wishes she could yell— let out a screech that’ll burst people's eardrums and scare away everything in sight.

The one question: "What do you want to ask?" taunts her. It’s like she’s a cat, staring as her owner eats while she’s left on the ground, starving. She wants to ask Stephen that question. She wants him to take her into his arms, and there, only there, will she ask, "What do you want to ask?"

She’s asked him that question many times before, but this was different. This adventure has Moon Knight’s life at stake. Not just theirs. She’s never felt it this hard to ask him something. It feels lodged inside her throat.

The words caught start to come to the tip of her throat. She exhales a sigh of defeat and lets the words spill out in quick, rapid-fire succession.

"Please do not take offense. Are you able to get to the mission safely after this meal?" She pauses and slows down, forming her words properly before speaking. Clea takes the time to readjust her position, placing her hands in her lap and softening her expression. Her anxiety about making her husband angry filters out of her mind as Moon Knight looks at her quizzically like the equation in his mind wasn’t adding to what she was saying.

"I’m not sure if we have an open room to stay in. However, we do have blankets and pillows. You can always make yourself comfortable in the greenhouse." Clea explains softly. The biggest worry on her mind is that her words aren’t getting processed correctly through his fog-covered mind. She forces a smile and continues. "I’m sure no one has been in that room for years since you entered it. Why should there be people in there now?"

"How could you ignore the plants in the greenhouse if you have a courtyard like this?" Moon Knight asks. He gestures around the yard. She feels her mouth perk up into a smirk.

He's avoiding the question so it doesn't look like he's grabbing at straws. Nice.

"These plants are growing under a spell," Clea confesses. She brings the teacup up to her lips to hide her grin. She takes a sip and closes her eyes. "Now it is you who is avoiding a question."

"Well, I…" He trails off and rubs his eyes. Clea’s smirk drops as she watches him claw at his fingernails. She doesn’t mean to glare at him, but she chalks her intense stare at the fact that she’s worried for the man.

Clea’s never seen his face, let alone his body beyond the suit. She played it off smoothly in the greenhouse, but the pure shock of seeing him for the first time left her baffled. She expected someone less scrawny and less sickly-looking. Under the sun, his features are very defined. Parts of him looked borderline unhealthy, and she wasn’t sure what to do or if she could do anything about it. To say she was worried was an understatement. 

Moon Knight stops digging underneath his nails and looks back up at Clea. His eyes are large and dark brown, with teal dripping into the color around the rim of his iris’. Inside the eye is a white circle running around his dilated pupils. His eyes make Clea’s mind explode with curiosity about him. They cannot be human.

Her questions would have to wait until later.

"Can we set something up in the greenhouse?" Moon Knight bites his lip. He flinches away from Clea’s gaze, and she takes that cue to stop subconsciously smoldering and act softer— even if she wants to scold him for not taking better care of himself.

"Of course," Clea says, placing her teacup down. "Are you done eating?"

His eyes linger on the food left on the table. He eyeballs the muffins, and Clea’s half sure she’ll see a grown man take an entire plate of muffins. However, he just nods and says, "Yeah. I am; thank you for the meal." His response surprises her and makes her relieved at the same time.

"Anytime you need it," Clea says, and she means it. She feels deep in debt to Moon Knight. Maybe that’s why seeing him like this makes her so worried. She shrugs off those thoughts as quickly as they come, not wanting to think about it for too long.

Clea offers a hand to him, and he takes it. She drags him forward and winds her arm from his hand to his back, pushing him along. He looks half-dead, and she hopes Moon Knight doesn’t fall asleep while walking back.

It makes Clea angry. The fact that she allowed Moon Knight to stay over. A part of her mind says it isn’t her fault that it spiraled out of control. However, whenever she thinks of Moon Knight, her heart aches, and a cacophony of emotions overcomes her again.

She knows quite well why she's been freaking out over it. She feels in debt— that’s why. Moon Knight was the only one who supported her attempts to resurrect Stephen besides Wong and Bats. He was the one to show her the final piece of the puzzle.

He thought nothing of it; she knew that. It was a throwaway remark and nothing else. 

"You need someone with the power and influence to do it. The kind of power and influence a god has, and even then, they’re only doing it so you’ll work for them." He had said.

Nothing else.

"But who would be powerful enough to get a former sorcerer supreme to work for them?"

Clea shoves him into the greenhouse and abandons him as quickly as possible. She scrambles for a teleportation spell, forming a circle under her fingers and having bedding drop from above. She catches the piles of blankets and pillows with one hand and stops the spell with the other.

She wasn’t ignorant about how she could’ve teleported them there in the greenhouse, but she thought Moon Knight could make it. She was dead wrong. 

Clea always found it wondrous yet terrifying how humans crash when tired. She’s never surrounded herself with actual humans. Even her husband wasn’t human anymore. Food from Earth didn’t sit well in his stomach any more; the same went for Wong, and their dog was a ghost.

With a few deep breaths, the shock and anxiety inside her system filter out, and she opens the greenhouse's door. She prays to some otherworldly being that she won't see Moon Knight on the ground, clocked out again. Not again.

Clea steps into the room, seeing his head snap around to face her. She flinches as the door slams shut behind her and swiftly goes to lean the pile of blankets against a table, her arms tired.

"Take whatever you want." Clea tilts her head toward the pile. It looks like a heap of randomly assorted blankets shoved onto each other with barely any organization. She chalks it up to Bats getting into the closet again. "It’s your bed, not mine."

The only acknowledgement she gets is a yawn. Moon Knight jumps onto his feet, and in seconds, the pile is from her hands and already laid out around the ground. She watches, letting out a laugh, as he places the blankets and pillows around like it’s a bird's nest. Barriers of blankets form as walls on the sides, and pillows trail around the top.

As he comes to an end, Clea steps up to him, crouches down, and places a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright for the day?" She asks. She was worried for the man. She’s never taken care of an actual human before. She can officially say that it’s terrifying.

Moon Knight continues to work, patting down blankets and taking more pillows from the pile. She sighs and slides her hand from his shoulder up to his head. She ruffles his hair, resisting a laugh as his bangs fall before his face. He looks like a 2000s boy band member she’s only seen on album covers. She stands back up and exits the room, leaving him and returning to work.

The sound of a stream accompanies her as she continues her trek further. She had never been this far out, sticking behind to set up camp instead of scouring for food. That was Stephen's job.  

She felt the water was too loud. Usually, she’d use her magic to slow the stream down in this situation, but this realm didn’t allow for that. She thought the Realm of the Beasts should be renamed the Realm of No Magic. 

Once again, thank the Inua. Clea grumbles and trudges further, finally making it to the water source.

She pulls back a wall of ferns. They snap back into place as Clea slips past their barrier and pulls her hand back. The greenery is oddly bright– more of sage than a pistachio color, like back at the camp. She hops over the narrow stream with ease and walks along its bank. 

The river slowly grows in size. Clea watches fish jostle themselves into the air and whip around frantically, trying to get upstream. It makes her want to help. 

A part of her wants to scoop the fish up and place them upstream, but before she can brashly do so, red water rushes past. It’s a blink, and you’ll miss it a moment, but she sees it for a flash, and the ball in her stomach drops. She’s once again left fearful. She finds it hard to decipher what, but her brain claws back to the knowledge of Moon Knight being missing.  

That could’ve been his blood.

Clea finds herself discarding her high heels in a panicked state. She grabs the heels with two fingers with her right hand and balls up her skirt in her left. It’s rash, but Clea can’t help as her legs move without her allowing themselves to. She zips past the fish, running along the bank. 

Rocks poke her feet as she runs— no, sprints, to where she’s sure Moon Knight is. It’s obvious. Humans have red blood. One of the only intelligent species to have red blood, she’s found.

After a few minutes of running, something catches Clea’s eyes instantly. It’s blinding, white, and glowing through the dense flora. She comes to a screeching halt, drops everything in her hands, and sifts through the leaves.

A blinding white figure lies across the ground. On top of the figure is a transparent animal. Inspecting further, it has ivory skin and tussled, brown hair. Clea’s breath hitches, and thoughts of denial swirl inside her head. Her knees practically buckle underneath her, but she manages to finagle herself against a tree for balance.  

Swallowing her worries, Clea approaches Moon Knight on the ground, pushing the branches out of her way.

Moon Knight barely looks like himself. His bangs flip over to cover his eyes, and stubble lines his jaw. His sweater and pants are stained, soaked, and torn. His arms are bare, as well as his legs, of which his left leg is caked in dried blood. He clutches a makeshift spear in his right hand and Bats in the other. A duffle bag is put against him, acting as a pillow. A small, burned-out fire pit is farther away from the two.

Clea swiftly grabs the duffle bag and throws it over her shoulder. She then places bats onto Moon Knight's chest and scoops them into her arms. She heaves them upwards, stumbling backward but managing a grip on both of them.

She doesn’t think of the ramifications of her actions, already heading back to camp with the two of them as quickly as possible.

Chapter Text

Badr raps his knuckles against the glass door. He frowns and lets out a long sigh, bringing his fingers to rub under his glasses as the doors swing open. His fingers dig into the bags under his eye, reminding him how little sleep everyone has gotten over the past few days. However, he shakes it off and continues taking off his coat, placing it on the coat rack, and bowing his head to Reese and Soldier.

“Seen any sign of him yet?” Reese calls over. Badr clicks out of his groove, halts his approach to the kitchen, and stills. 

“Not yet,” Badr mumbles. He can hear both of them sigh in disappointment and look away. He furrows his brows, surveying their position.

Reese sits cross-legged on the desk in the middle of the room. She holds a mug in one hand and her phone in the other. Soldier sits beside her in a chair, also drinking from a mug. From time to time, like right now, she’ll direct his attention from the ground to her phone to show him something. Soldier’s face will light up, then crease back into a frown as he returns to picking at his nails. Dark lines form under both of their eyes. It makes Badr cringe.

Since the sanctum had vanished out of thin air, people had stayed up late to come to the Midnight Mission instead. They opened in the evening instead of the night now. Badr didn’t like the idea but suggested it due to the mass crowd that came every night. Reese and Soldier had been reluctant to do so, and now he wished he had listened to them more.

In his mind, he knew Reese had been too busy scheduling waiting lists with Soldier to sleep well. He’s intelligent enough to see the hard toll of providing moral support to those who came in. Soldier looks like a zombie— more dead looking than when he did die. He shifts his gaze back to the ground and continues through his routine.

Badr drags himself out of the entry and into the kitchen. The Mission prods him forward by shifting the floorboards underneath him like a moving walkway. He hums, mumbling a quiet “ shukran ” to the walls before collapsing to the island in the middle of the kitchen.

Badr, himself, had been taking double shifts. In the morning, he’d down coffee and go to the clinic. During his lunch break, Badr would eat as fast as possible, nap, down more coffee, and continue. When his shift ended, he’d pass out at the Mission, wake up when it opened, work, then sleep until his next shift started. 

Everyone had been dragging themselves slower and slower in the past few days. Badr can see it in everyone. The task wasn’t easy, but it was taking its toll. During the nights, he kept on taking more hits than he needed. It’d left bruises splattered against his torso that ache every morning. Even with the painkillers he took, his wounds never stopped aching. During the mornings, he’d find himself drifting off in the break room at any chance. It wasn’t healthy, and Badr knows so.

“Instead of coffee, why don’t you take the day off?” A voice— Badr can only pinpoint as Greer speaking— echoes through the room. He groans, propping his head onto his forearm as she walks to the counter. She places her hands on the tile and tilts her head. “I can take the night for you, and you could get some semblance of sleep.”

Badr huffs, sifting his position to be upward. His body doesn’t help his case. He yawns before answering her with a quick “no.” He sees her lips perk up into a smile as he slides his head into his hands. 

 “Is sleep deprivation getting to your head?” Greer swirls her fingers around her ears before digging one into his shoulder. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Yes, I do. It’s for the best.” Badr shoves her finger off of his shoulder. “The Sanctum Sanctorum is gone. These people have no one to turn to besides us. They know the police force cannot handle what they need help with, and now the day shift is gone. It’s like working at a hospital. If more patients require care, nurses and doctors will take more hours to help.”

“This isn’t a hospital, Badr.” Greer frowns. Instead of a finger getting dug back into his shoulder, as he expects, a hand slides from his forearm and stops on the side of his neck. “You expect—”

“These people are waiting until the crack of dawn to get it, be heard, and have their problem solved—”

“Let me finish.” Greer interrupts. She moves to the other side of the counter and takes Badr’s hands away from his face. She cups them around her own and strokes her fingers against his. “You expect yourself to take more shifts. That’s how a clinic operates. You are there for more hours and save more lives, but this line of work is different. You work more hours and save more lives. However, you can’t function properly. You take more hits, can’t take any more shifts, and oddly enough, people aren’t being saved. Suddenly, you are the one who needs to be saved because you’ve pushed yourself too hard.

“You and I have both seen it in Marc. He keeps on pushing until he collapses and cannot get up. You’ve called it irrational before. Yes, I’ve heard a few of your tussles. Yet, you do the same. Don’t you see your hypocrisy?” Greer’s face turns up from his hands to his eyes. Worry embeds itself in her eyes, and Badr’s stomach twists. Greer opens her mouth, going to say more, but ultimately stops herself, adding to the deafening silence surrounding them.

Badr looks down at their hands entwined together. Greer’s fingers have become still, but her grip has tightened as her facial expression hardens. He nods and lets out a shaky sigh. 

“Will you take the night for me?” Badr grits his teeth together. He hates asking for it, but he knows Greer is right. He’s seen it happen with Marc. It’s only rational to do the opposite.

Greer smiles, closing her eyes and nodding. She lets go of his hands and stands up straight, looking down at him. 

“Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Wong stretches his arms out, letting orange sparks form into circles over his arms. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearing his mind.

“Agamotto, aid me in seeing what happened here. Hecate, share your abilities to provide clearer imagery. I smile upon you both. Let it be.” 

Images take form under his eyelids, swirling and pulsating. He lets his mind teeter further into his headspace, them sharpening until he can see clearly.

Four individuals. A man wrapped in a blue robe and red cloak, Stephen Strange. A woman in a sleek black dress, Clea. A small, ghost-like dog, Bats. A man in a white sweater and jeans— Moon Knight? 

Another comes in, asking for help. Dark hair. Amulet. Strange approaches. 

Screaming. Portal. Transportation. Explosion.

Wong opens his eyes, letting the spell dissipate. He hums, turning to those surrounding him.

The Avengers scatter themselves around the Sanctum's debris. Danvers takes the front, closest to Wong, with Stark beside her. Wilson is where the lobby would’ve been, next to Thor. Maximoff, who is at the entrance of the building, is next to Vision. Although Wong can’t see T’Challa, he knows he is behind, perched on a pillar. 

“I have a brief idea of what happened,” Wong announces. Everyone’s eyes narrow into his view. Maximoff inches closer, and Danvers takes a more authoritarian stance, arms folded. “It’s not very clear. However, it is a starting point.”

Danvers nods. Everything here makes Wong wish W.A.N.D took care of this instead of the Avengers. Typically, Strange is the diplomat with the Avengers, but he’s gone. Now, Wong has to explain every tidbit of sorcery to them, and even then, no one will get it. He finds it infuriating. 

“Strange, Clea, Bats, Marc Spector, and another were in the Sanctum when the explosion occurred. I cannot identify the other person, but I know the explosion came right after the unidentified individual entered the building.” Wong states. 

“ Marc Spector? ” Danvers puts a finger to her lips, thinking. “Why would he be here?.”

“He and Strange are buddies!” Stark smirks, putting on a shit-eating grin Wong despises. He throws an elbow onto Danvers’ shoulder, which she quickly shoves off. “Well, they still team up from time to—”

“Marc Spector is on our watchlist.” Vision, who had silently crept into the semi-circle the Avengers had formed in front of Wong, interrupts Stark's addition to the conversation.

“Did you see anything that ties the explosion to him?” T’Challa, in the back, adds.

“From what I saw, the explosion is tied to the individual who entered the Sanctum. I don't know why he was in the building. Additionally, I cannot produce any information if anyone is alive. I can only assume they are due to Bats’ disappearance and the portal.” Wong sighs. The Avengers were going to be the death of him. He hated being interrupted.

“Can you repeat what you saw again? With no interruptions?” Danvers snaps, nudging Stark further away from her. 

Wong nods and reiterates. “Strange, Clea, Bats, Spector, and an unidentified individual are in the Sanctum. This individual has long, black hair and pale skin. They’re holding an amulet in their hands. They run into the Sanctum, possibly asking for help. Suddenly, I believe from the amulet, a portal is formed.” Wong pauses, thinking for a second before speaking again. “This portal more than likely acted like a Black Hole, sucking everything in, then exploding when it closed. I do not know if everyone is alive, and if they are, where they ended up at. I only know there was much screaming. Raw, uncontrolled screaming.”

Wong gives a second for the Avengers to soak in the information. The air is tense, and the debris around them feels like boulders. Unmovable. He keeps his posture straight, hands folded in one another, even though his stomach churns with fear. 

He didn’t realize how bad it was until he said it. He could extend that realization to the Avengers scattered around him. They all stand in silence, eyes flicking from one to the other. He mildly hoped that Stark regretted trying to make a joke about Marc and Strange’s relationship. However, he shoves that hope deep down, trying to forget about it.

“What is the chance that everyone is alive?” Danvers speaks. She drops her hand from her lips and places it on her hips.

“I do not know. The portal could’ve sucked all in, killing none, or it could’ve sucked all in, killing all who entered.” Wong looks at the debris next to him. He sighs, “There are only two possibilities.”

“They’re dead or somewhere else.” Wilson finishes Wong’s sentence, his face solemn. Wong nods, folding his hands behind his back.

“We’ll upheave the debris and look for clues,” Danvers states before silence overtakes them again. “Wong, if you could help, that would be very useful. Thor and Wilson will take the front of the Sanctum. Stark and I will take the left side. Wanda and Panther will take the right. Wong and Vision will take the back.”

The team snaps into action. Wong meets up beside Vision, walking over to the back of the Sanctum.

From afar, Greer sits on the edge of a building. She’s crouched down, her hands filing through her hair. Tears flow from her eyes, not caused by sorrow but from the indescribable anger pulsating through her veins.

“Did you see anything that ties the explosion to him?”

Greer huffs and stands. Her hands ball themselves into fists, her teeth barred. Her tail was instinctively stiff, her ears tilted back, and her nose scrunched.

If they wanted him to be guilty, if they blamed this blood on his hands, they would have to go through her and the entire Mission. They would have to feel her wrath and then some. They would have to watch as she tore through the entirety of Manhattan, plucking them off, one by one.

However, they quickly dispelled the accusation. It was only T’Challa who said that. Greer had to remind herself how eager he was to get on the hate train for Marc. She had to remind herself that nobody liked him, and it hurt. 

She turns around on her heels, wipes the tears off her face, and runs. To where? Greer didn’t know or care. It didn’t matter to her. She had to run. To keep on running until she forgot everything that she had heard. 

She’ll end up at the Mission eventually. However, for now, she’ll run like Hell and forget that the man she loves is more than likely gone. Forever.

Chapter Text

Twigs obscure their view of the sky, intricately weaved together. An old battery lamp hangs from the branch beside them, holding the makeshift tent up. A few torn-apart blankets are against the ground under them. They groan and sit up, rubbing their temples.

“Dear, I love you. However, my patience thins.”

Something happened. Are there people outside? Why are they arguing?

“Your patience is thinning? My apologies, but mine has been gone since you commented about him being here.”

They huff and rub their eyes, yawning. Everyone feels shoved into the front, tied together like the Gordian knot. It’s disorienting. The body feels gelatinous, and the world around them feels like water. Those arguing outside don’t make their headache lessen. It makes it infinitely worse.

“We talked about this at the Sanctum. You told me he was gone.” 

Regardless, they need to keep on moving. Unfamiliar surroundings mean new territory to scout out. It’s either a blessing or a curse.

“I told you he was gone because—”

They slowly drag themself out of the tent, pulling themselves onto their feet. Their leg aches, but they ignore it the best they can. The two arguing come to a halt, snapping their heads in their direction. Jake whistles, leaning on the tent and shoving their hands in their pockets.

Clea has her hair pinned up with a twig. Her dress is tattered and tied up to her waist. Her heels are gone, her gloves are around certain parts of her legs, and her cape is gone. Strange still wears the Cloak of Levitation. His blue robe is tattered and cut in some places. Furthermore, his sleeves fold upward, his gloves are off, and his sash is nowhere to be seen. 

“You both look like shit.” Jake manages to spit out, grinning. He raises his eyebrows at the doctor's sigh of disapproval. 

You’re going to get us killed by saying that, Marc huffs. Steven, close behind, agrees. Jake lets out a huff of offense and rolls his eyes at the two. 

We need to be cautious. Steven warns. Jake feels him carefully placing a hand on his shoulder and leaning down. We’re going to spend the next few days… maybe even weeks with them. It’s best to have better negotiations than to show up and entice them with you and Marc’s colorful language.

Okay, Mr. Business. Jake smirks as Steven frowns at him. He ignores the glare Marc gives Steven and continues to poke the bear. Whatever you say. 

This is why you take care of the criminal side of business, Lockley.

You love me for it. Jake bumps closer to Steven, looking up from under his chin. Steven looks down at him and sighs.

“I can say the same to you,” Strange glares, his eyes cold and dark. Marc notes that he’s probably repeated it multiple times with no response. 

He’s already furious. Jake laughs.

You’re not making this any better. Marc huffs, folding his arms.

“You shouldn’t be walking.” Clea snaps. “Did you forget about your injury?” 

They furrow their brows, looking down at their leg. Strange's sash is tied tightly around the majority of their calf. Marc shakes his head, looking back up to Clea’s gaze. If her eyes could kill, they’d be dead for the fourth time.

Marc, do you want to explain why we have an injury to Jake? Steven smirks as Jake peers at him, watching Marc hide further into his oversized green jacket. 

No. Marc huffs. Jake turns to Steven, whose lips are pursed. He clicks his tongue and smiles.

He slipped on a rock.  

It was more than a rock—

“Here, sit. Your leg needs time to heal, and I’m sure you have many questions.” Clea gestures next to the fire, which flickers in the mild breeze. Small branches hang over the pit, letting fish cook on the end. The smell makes their mouth water, reminding them that they hadn’t eaten last night.

Jake, managing to untangle himself from the two and completely slip into the front for a second, drags their body to where Clea had pointed. He plops down without argument and shoves his hands into his pockets. Strange continues to stand adjacent to Clea, who is now sitting down across from him. 

He takes notice of Bats, sleeping on top of Clea’s leg. Her hand is gently laid on the dog, petting him slowly. Clea’s expression is soft and welcoming, a stark comparison to how she looked at them when she asked why they were standing. Strange acts the same, a bit more relaxed, but continues to shoot Jake a glare that could kill even the strongest deities. 

Does he always seem like he has a stick shoved up his ass? Jake rolls his eyes and frowns. 

Marc smirks, crouching down next to Jake. Do you see why I don’t like him?

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him have a different expression. He’s always shootin’ daggers at ‘cha. Jake comments. What ’cha do you do to piss him off so badly?

You already know. Marc rolls his eyes. He sighs and rubs his eyes, taking a seat next to Jake. Can I take the front for this? 

If the doctor were here, she’d give you a gold star for communication, ya’ know.

Marc rolls his eyes and slips into the front. He feels like he’s coming back to the surface from being underwater. The disconnectedness of headspace dissipates as his senses are suddenly alert. He cracks his neck, folds his arms, and crosses his legs, ignoring the pain. He narrows his eyes toward Strange, not wanting to direct his anger that sits like a brick in his gut toward Clea or Bats.

“Care to explain why I woke up in an unfamiliar world three days ago?” Marc spits out. His tone is laced with venom as the anger that has sat in his gut for days starts stirring inside him.

“Would you first explain why you were in the Sanctum? I heard from someone that she kicked you out .” Strange’s nose scrunches up. Clea scoots away from her husband as Marc goes to look at her, his eyebrows raised. Bats peeks up at her, dazed from sleep. 

Why would Clea lie to Strange?  

“She let me stay in the greenhouse for the day,” Marc states. He looks back toward Strange, who lets out a long sigh that sounds like it has been long coming. “Now, will you answer my question? Or continue to avoid it?”

“By the Shades of the Seraphim… ” Strange groans. Marc senses Jake in the background, smirking smugly at the sorcerer. 

This better be good, Jake huffs. Marc can tell that he’s as tired as him with being here. They all want to go home.

They all miss everyone at the Mission. The anxiety of not coming back sits next to their anger in their gut, feeding it.

“Robert Gomorra, a superpowered individual, came to the Sanctum requesting help. He had said that the Amulet of Abbadon, a device that even I do not know how powerful it may be, had been cursed.” Strange clicks his tongue as the Cloak of Levitation lets him float in the air, legs crossed. He holds a bowl and traces the outline of it with his finger. 

“The curse had amplified its power and rendered the amulet extremely dangerous. Gomorra knew such and came for aid in disposing of it.” Strange continues. “I tried to do so, but as any spell came in range of the amulet, said spell would get dangerously unstable. I managed to undo most of the magic. However, we wanted to see if teleporting it somewhere safer would be a viable solution. Then, we would be able to take care of the amulet there.

“As I cast the spell, the amulet, instead of making my magic unstable, consumed the spell. Suddenly, it formed a black hole-like portal and sucked me in. Gomorra, the wielder of the amulet, dissolved in front of my eyes, indirectly aiding the portal to become stronger.”

Strange clears his throat and takes a sip from the bowl. “I came here with kitchen items, wooden boards, and blankets tossed at me recklessly. A true mixture of chaos until the portal opened here. You and Bats were a mystery until Clea found you on a river bank and brung you here. You were injured, so we aided you the best we could.” 

Marc takes another look at his leg. He furrows his brows and rubs his temples. He could feel the headache from being tangled together in the morning with his alters lessen. 

“Is there a name for this dimension?” Marc asks, keeping his fingers locked onto his temples. 

“The Realm of the Beasts.” Strange proclaims, taking another sip. Whatever he was drinking sounded heavenly to Marc at the moment. “A dimension sealed off by the Inua, the Northern Gods. This one, in particular, does not allow the use of magic. The Inua did so to keep the beasts inside.”

“Did you encounter a beast?” Marc asks smugly. Strange’s brows furrow as he slowly realizes what Marc meant.

“You, also , look like shit.” Strange growls. “However, no. We have not, contrary to our appearances. The beasts have likely stayed near their castle instead of away from it. Plant life seems to be flourishing because of it.”

Jake does a low whistle in the back of Marc’s mind, and he resists the urge to shove him far away from the front.

“The beasts have a castle?” Marc scoffs. “What kind of beasts are they?”

“None you have seen before.” Strange smirks. “They’re intelligent and clever. They once were more powerful, with magic by their side. They tried to take over the Earth, and that’s when the Inua sealed them from other dimensions.”

Why has everyone tried to take over the Earth? Jake sighs, exasperated. It’s nothin’ special.

Marc hums, nodding his head. He smirks and places his chin on his thumb. The other fingers curl around his lips. Aside from the thousands of super powered individuals and people who have faced down those beyond our comprehension of understanding, it’s nothing special.

You smug bastard. Jake mutters. 

“How do we get back to Earth?” Marc inquires. It sounds more like a statement than a question to Strange because of Marc’s monotone voice, but he rolls with it.

“Every realm, dimension, and plane of existence is connected to an area called the Crossroads. Thus, this dimension has to have a nexus where the Crossroads can be accessed.” Strange responds, sonorous. “If we sense a magic signature that is greater, even by the smallest margin, we have found the Crossroads.”

Marc lets out a defeated sigh. He covers his face with his hands and massages his eyes. Everything Strange was saying was going through one ear and out the other to Marc. He was too hungry to think. It felt like it was chewing through the insides of his stomach like acid. 

“Rest assured, I have concluded by searching the area that the Crossroads are near the castle. All we have to do is gather food and supplies. Then, we’ll be homebound.” Strange smiles, sincerely enough for Marc to feel like he wasn’t talking to him. “Clea informed me of your gardening skills. If we could—”

“Question.” Marc loudly calls over Strange before he begins to ramble again. He can feel Jake shove himself as close as humanly possible behind him. He sighs and leans back in his mind, just enough for Jake to ask instead. 

“We’re excited to get workin’. You can rest assured that, but first off, we haven’t eaten in a while. Bats can vouch.” Jake fiddles with the hem of his pockets. Strange looks at Clea, who shoots up onto her feet, startling Bats. If her disgruntled expression on her face is any indication, she’s wanted this excuse to get out of the conversation a long time ago.

“The food cooking is yours. I’ll gather water. Be nice to each other, alright?” Clea quickly hurries to the base of a tree, where piles of miscellaneous items are stored, including their bag, Marc notes. Clea takes a bucket beside a wooden board and rushes into the woods. Bats takes off with her.

Jake sighs as Marc pushes back into the front, switching off but staying close to him. Marc shifts his body, grabs one of the branches by the fire, and goes to town on the charred fish. 

The taste is bitter, sour, and yet Marc does not have any care in the world. He feels Steven resurface, just enough to gag audibly at the taste. Jake lets out a bark of laughter, pinching his nostrils down. It smells like charcoal and acid, but Marc finds it heavenly. It eases the grinding pain in his gut and makes his limbs not feel like bricks.

He finishes the first and downs the second one, noting the lack of hunger chewing at his gut when he tosses the branches to the side. Marc wipes his mouth with his sleeve and looks up at Strange. He’s looking away, disgust written all over his face.

“I have a few questions for you,” Strange proclaims as he recomposes himself. His poker face shadows his true emotions again, and Marc is back to looking at a stone, cold man. “I believe you have found that yours and Clea’s stories do not match, correct?”

Marc nods. Obviously, Clea had lied to Strange. Marc would like to know why.

“May you tell your side of the story? Why were you at the Sanctum?” Strange leans down, placing his bowl on the ground. He puts his hands delicately in his lap and narrows his eyes at Marc.

“Clea offered me a key to the Sanctum a few weeks before this happened. She said I could take care of the greenhouse in the Sanctum whenever I wanted. A few weeks passed, a bad mission happened, and I decided to show.” Marc sighs and rubs his eyes. He now regretted that decision, but could he go back? Not at all. “Quite frankly, I zoned out and didn’t realize how late I had stayed. You and Clea interrupted, and once you left, she invited me for breakfast.”

Strange lets out a loud groan. Marc sucks in his lips, looking away from Strange. Clea, obviously, hadn’t said that to him.

“We talked, and she offered for me to stay the night. I agreed and she helped me set up in the greenhouse.” Marc shrugs, leaning back. “I don’t see the problem that you’re having with her.”

“It’s not for you to know but for me and her to talk about.” Strange hums. He shoots a smug grin at Marc before dropping back into his usual glare. “I applaud your attempt to pry for information. You almost had me.”

Marc frowns. Goddamnit.

You didn’t have him at all. Steven remarks in the back of his mind. He’s fading between headspace and co-froning, which is mildly disorienting, but they’re all used to it. 

Marc sighs and looks away from the sorcerer. Steven, do you think I don’t know that? 

Marc catches Clea coming back from the corner of his eye, lugging now a full bucket of water. She places it by the fire and shakes her hands, water droplets flying from her fingers.

“Did you go over the garden idea?” Clea asks Strange. She goes and picks a bowl from the pile at the base of the tree, and drops it next to the bucket. 

“Ah, thank you for the reminder.” The two exchange smiles before Clea tips the bucket over some, and lets water pour down into the bowl until it’s full. Then, she tilts the bucket back and places the bowl in front of Marc.

“Garden?” Marc raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of water. He can feel it flow down his spine and stop in his stomach. 

“Clea informed me of your gardening skills. If we could make a garden, it would be very beneficial for our travels in the future.” Strange remarks. He uncrosses his legs and slowly floats to the ground. 

Marc nods and takes another sip of water. He gets up, copying the two by standing. 

“Gather your things. The Cloak of Levitation and Bats shall accompany you before I and Clea do.” Strange turns to Clea, wrapping a hand around her waist. 

Marc nods, watching as Strange whisks away the Cloak. It grabs his duffle bag from the tree, and drops it at his feet. Marc picks it up, slings it up onto his shoulder, and turns around. 

The Cloak, instead of letting Marc walk, swiftly wraps itself around his shoulders and carries him out. Marc sighs, not fighting against it as Bats runs up beside him. The three head off into the woods, vanishing into the ashy vegetation as the couple looks at each other, knowing the talk at hand.

Chapter Text

The silence lies heavy as a shroud over the entire campsite.

Stephen's eyes are cold and dark, piercing through the silence and echoing a sentiment of disappointment. His arms fold over one another, making him seem gigantic compared to Clea. She feels like an ant compared to her husband. 

“Why have you been lying?”

Clea bites her lip and takes a deep breath, her hands cupping themselves into each other. She steps closer toward Stephen, bowing her head, making herself seem microscopic.

This is what you wanted... Right? For him to ask this question? 

Clea opens her mouth, then stops. She places her palms against her forehead, feeling anger bubble inside her stomach. Yes, she wanted this, but she forgot the anger that torments her with it. Her fury screams at her to forget about it and leave him out of the know. However, it will do nothing but add more disappointment to her husband's gaze.

Stephen’s arms sweep under Clea’s, locking them together. He takes his time wrapping his hands around her hips as he pulls her closer. Her head lies gently against his chest, and she stills, breathing soft puffs of air. The tension alleviates slightly, and she suddenly feels as if she’s putty against his hands.

She’s so tired.

“I understand that you are stressed. None of us have been getting the best sleep, and Moon Knight being here only raises tensions.” Stephen lays his jaw against her hair, letting his eyes trail over the curls. “However, that does not mean you cannot talk to me about this. Yes, he is not my favorite person. We all know that, but why did you not tell me? We could have found him sooner.”

Clea huffs, slowly pulling away from him. She puts her hands on his forearms and looks into his eyes. They don’t feel so cold anymore.

It’s enough to feel like he’ll understand.

“A multitude of reasons, Stephen.” Clea sighs, closing her eyes. “...I was fearful of your anger if you found out. Not for myself, never for myself, for I know I can handle your wrath, but can he? Moon Knight? Can he handle Stephen Strange when he has exhausted his patience?” Clea’s brows furrow. She disconnects her palms from her husband's robes and steps away. 

“I have to give him credit where credit is due… He once beat me in combat, if that makes you feel better.” Stephen mutters, folding his arms and diverting his eyes. Clea can taste the sourness behind his voice. She decides not to pry.

“Dear, that is not…” Clea groans. She places her hands behind her head and takes a deep breath. “I do not have a care in the world if he once bested you in combat. Most people have. I have, for Hoggoths sake! This is not  about combat. This is about your anger for someone who I care for!” She cries out, waving her hands around in the air frantically. 

“Why do you care so much about him?” Stephen scoffs. “He is someone you should not be affiliated with. You were on Earth when Khonshu took over the world. He sided with the demise of thousands! Why do you care for him after everything he has done?”

Clea eyeballs Stephen. The anger in her stomach is boiling, bubbling up to her throat, threatening to make her explode at him. However, she grits her teeth and stops herself from yelling a not-so-pleasant remark back. She knows his stubbornness. It was only time until his brain would click into detective mode, and he would think this conversation over again. Maybe it would take hours, but there would be that moment, and only there would she feel like screaming I told you so at him. However, Clea would have to deal with his stubbornness for now.

“He helped me get you back to life, Stephen! By the Shades of Seraphim! Do you not see how important that is to me?” Clea gasps, raising her voice. She can hear her statement echo throughout the forest, and she prays that Moon Knight is far enough so he doesn’t hear their argument.

“How much did he help you, truly?” Stephen retorts, his voice laced with venom. Somehow, he's kept his voice low regardless of Clea’s rise in volume. 

"You need someone with the power and influence to do it. The kind of power and influence a god has, and even then, they’re only doing it so you’ll work for them.”

“How did he help me, in such an immense way, and I do not know of it? He is not one to help those he is not fond of.”

"But who would be powerful enough to get a former sorcerer supreme to work for them?"

“He has died three times, Strange .” Clea snaps. She frowns, taking a deep breath. “When I heard of that information, I ran to him as fast as possible. We went through the night together, saving people from criminals... and so forth. I thought there was no lead, and I believed I had wasted the night until he described how he came back to life. He worked for a god. That is why he was resurrected.

“…He made the final puzzle piece click into my mind that it was you. It was you who was working for Death.” Clea exhales a long, tense breath. She looks into her husband's eyes, softly smiling. “ You were the Harvestman.”

Stephen’s expression softens, going quiet. His fingers go to his lips, pondering. She had broken through the stubbornness.

A calm silence, replacing the tension, covers the camp. Clea cannot help but feel relieved. She looks toward the forest, the same direction Moon Knight and co. had gone. She takes a deep breath, smelling the pungent odor of ash and freshly grown grass.

“I feel in debt to him, in a way.” She breaks the silence, continuing her speech. “He helped me get you back, and he will never know how much that meant to me… How much it still means to me. I thought I could repay what he had done by trying to help him, protect him in a manner…” Clea shrugs, folding her arms. 

“I gave him the key to the Sanctum in hopes he would go there and take a break from working. From what I have heard on the street, he never sleeps.” Clea chuckles slightly, then shakes her head. That wasn’t funny. “I feel… conflicted . I don't feel that way lying to you, that I did and confess to. I feel conflicted because he’s so fragile , yet so strong .

“It’s like he's a turtle!” She exclaims, laughing. “He has a hard shell on the outside that everyone knows. However, he still has the softness on the inside that nobody knows , but everyone has . He does not show it, but he’s so fragile, just like every human. They are so small , a minuscule being inside of such a large world.

“…I fear that he forgets how fragile he is as a human. He’s died so many times, been through so many things, yet nobody acknowledges that. They only see the hard exterior his mind has been adapted to show to protect his insides, which are soft.” Clea narrows her eyes to Stephen, pointing at him. “You only see the shell. You see nothing beyond it. However, I see the softness under it. I see who he truly is: A person who cares… A lot, and sometimes, too much. 

“Sometimes, he cares too much, so you need to pull him back into reality, give him something to entertain him for his break, and leave him be. Give him space, but still give him love because that is what everybody needs. Love , acceptance , and understanding .” Clea smiles, raising her eyebrows at Stephen's expression of confusion. Her chest doesn’t feel tight for the first time in days. “I feel like I’m paying off my debt by being there. It is a small act, I know, but it means a lot in a world where everyone portrays him as someone who is crazy , who is sick .”

Stephen nods, humming. He closes his eyes, giving a second for the information in his mind to circulate into a response. Clea allows him, a grin plastered on her face. She’s been needing to say that for days. It feels like a blessing to get it off her chest.

“I did not know,” Stephen says, blatantly. His eyebrows are squished together, and his lips are pursed. “ I… You are correct. I have never heard his side from that perspective before.”

“Do you understand then?” Clea inquires, placing her hands back on his forearms. 

Stephen nods, looking into Clea’s eyes. “I understand.”

She feels bigger than her husband, pride swelling in her chest. She leans closer to him, smiling softly. “He may be an odd one out of the bunch, but I like that about him. He’s odd, weird, and downright silly at times, but he cares. He cares a lot, just like you and me.”

“He treats you well?” Stephen asks. Clea has to do a double-take to check if he’s serious about that question or not. 

“Are you jealous?” Clea stifles a laugh. “He does, he does. You needn’t worry, Stephen.”

“The only thing I’m worrying about is how long you were around him to get that sense of his side.” Stephen smiles. 

“The internet exists, dear.” Clea snaps back, jokingly. She pulls him closer to her, melting in his embrace. “Reese, his secretary, has a blog for the Midnight Mission. He ends up in a dumpster at least twice a week. It’s humorous to see.”

Stephen smiles and wraps one arm around Clea. He takes his other hand and plays with her curls, swirling them around his fingers. He kisses the top of her head, breathing in. 

“I will try harder to not chastise him around you. You like him, and he enjoys your company as well. He did not decline the breakfast invitation.” Strange takes a deep breath, leaning his head against Clea’s. Clea scoffs, feeling the puff of air hit her face as it bounces off his chest.

The knowledge of Moon Knight telling Stephen how he got tied into the mess makes Clea feel infinitely better. She doesn't have to lie anymore.

“Thank you, Stephen.” Clea hums, smiling. 

“I love you, Clea,” Stephen whispers, yawning.

“I love you, dear, but please do not yawn. It’s contagious, as humans believe.” Clea chuckles, pulling away from her husband. “We can go to sleep when the garden is finished. Grab the bucket, and I’ll lead the way to Moon Knight.”

“You know his name is Marc, right?” Stephen asks, grabbing the bucket and tugging it off the ground.

“He has a name?” Clea chokes out, shocked. She stumbles her way to the forest, coughing. Why did that surprise her so much?

“It’s with a C as well.” Strange smirks, dragging the bucket, half full of water, to Clea at the tree line.

“Thank G-d it is not with a C and a K. I would thoroughly distance myself from him if so.” Clea jokes, heading off into the forest, Stephen in tow. 

Chapter Text

“After the whole Blasphemy Cartel incident, Pandora, the girl I talked about before, decided to pick up the pieces of WAND and start anew.” Clea proclaims, smiling. She tears open another bag of seeds, dumping them into her palm and sorting out three. She delicately places the three in a triangle formation in a hole Bats had recently dug up before covering them with soil and patting the spot down.

“Wong joined Pandora in her endeavor. Recently—” Clea stops to narrowly dodge a clump of dirt flung at her before continuing. Marc narrows his eyes on the suspect, it being Bats. He had the job of digging up holes for the garden, no more than a few inches deep. Clea huffs and continues her position of putting seeds in the pits. Strange was nowhere to be seen, dragging water from the stream to the garden.

Marc huffs, shooting Bats a glare before being swatted away by the Cloak perched on his shoulders. In the back of his mind, he wished he was left alone to do it, but then Steven would scold him first, then Clea, and the rest would be history before they eventually killed him with their scolding. He grumbles, pointing at a spot for Bats to go to and dig up. 

“Recently, they’ve recruited Doctor Zee as well. From what I’ve heard from Wong’s calls with Stephen, he’s erratic but gets jobs done; very well from what I’ve picked up.” Clea hums, following Bats’ trail of holes. The garden was looking great so far— Marc had to admit. He had been worried at first, but then he dished out jobs, and it was smooth sailing from there. 

He wished Jake hadn’t peeled off to relax in headspace; Steven too. It would’ve been nice to talk to them instead of sitting and watching with nothing else to do.

Clea’s talking, yes, but it feels more like small talk. Steven would blame it on Marc for not adding to the conversation. Jake would back it up with “irrefutable evidence” — meaning, he had no idea what he was backing up, but he would always back up Steven, no matter what.

He misses having that sort of connection with them— with everyone. 

He wished he had stayed with his ideal of listening to friends instead of shutting them away at a moment's notice. He was nothing without his friends. So, he had made himself nothing by shutting everyone out. Even those who he loved: Jake, Steven—

“Do you have a day job?” Clea’s voice interrupts Marc’s thoughts and places him in the present. He sighs, propping his head up with his hands. 

“My full-time job is working at the Midnight Mission. However, Hunters Moon, my brother, has a day job.” Marc trails his fingers against the cracks of the ground and snaps them back up, waving his hand in the air. G-d, he hated sensory issues. “A doctor; works at a clinic near the Mission. He’s saved my skin a couple of times; others many more.” 

“Stephen was also a doctor.” Clea clicks her tongue, raising her eyebrow at Marc. “What does he do the work for? Why does he not go full-time at the Mission, like you?”

Marc rolls his eyes. “He is someone who helps people out of their own volition. His job as a doctor and avatar overlap in those ways: Both are helping others in one way or another.” He huffs, shooting a glare at Clea. He would love to get close and personal, showing that she shouldn’t imply such things. However, he’s stuck on the ground. So, he’ll resort to a pettier method: Glares . “If you’re implying that he’s an arrogant prick who only does it for money, you’re pointing fingers at the wrong doctor.”

Clea’s eyes bulge at him, face dropping into a frown. Marc can hear a loud cackle in the back of their headspace. He feels rage bubble in the center of his chest, knowing that Jake is watching from afar. 

“In the past, I agree.” Clea takes a deep breath. She stops planting seeds and puts her entire attention on the conversation. “Stephen was, by your words, an arrogant prick addicted to cash. However, now—”

“He’s still an arrogant prick, just without the cash.” Marc scoffs, folding his arms. 

You are dead, Spector. Marc feels Jake put a hand on his shoulder, suppressing a laugh. Steven and I can figure out your Shiva. No more movie nights at Greers—

Jake. Fuck off. Marc shoves him away, far, far from the front. He doesn’t need Jake’s heckling.

After a second, the Cloak whaps Marc’s face, and if his death wasn’t assured, he’s pretty sure he would’ve torn it to shreds in seconds. Clea does a so–so motion with her hand, smirking at the Cloak’s response.

“However, now, he’s thoughtful. He wishes the best for everyone. He’s twisted his mindset of being a doctor, helping people, into the world of sorcery.” Clea admires. “I have not met Hunters Moon— I wish to in the future— but both work for the same idea: To help people. They have their differences, but they work for an identical cause.”

Marc slides his hands over his eyes, suppressing a groan. Even though Jake got shoved away, Marc could feel him lean closer to him with a wild grin. They both knew she was right, and Marc hated it.

They had their differences, but at the core, both are doctors fighting to save those who need it. However great Marc’s distaste for Strange was, he could respect his hard work. He didn’t like the man, but he highly respected him.

Marc looks over the garden, watching Bats continue to work diligently. Clea continues to stare at him, and he tries his best to ignore the wide smirk she bears. He cannot imagine how large his frown is. His cheeks feel like they’re drooping off his face as long as Bats’ jowls.

“Agree to disagree,” Marc huffs after a stretch of silence. Clea shrugs and brushes it off, returning to planting seeds, lagging behind Bats’ work. 

Before silence can cover the area around them again: Clea perks up, wiggling her fingers and pursing her lips like she’s forgotten something. She snaps, swiftly throwing one or two seeds into the hole, covering it up, and wagging her finger at Marc.

“I had a question at breakfast, right—” Clea laughs, trying to catch up to where Bats is. Marc feels the anger in his chest dissipate as she swiftly changes the conversation. “Your eyes. Right now, they’re brown. However, in the morning, they were a mixture of colors. Browns, blues, whites even! I’ve never seen a human with such eyes before.”

Clea beams, catching up with Bats swiftly. Bats barks, running around Clea to try to slow her down. She laughs, swatting him away. Marc blinks, biting the side of his cheek. 

I’ve never seen a human with such eyes before.

A part of him doesn’t feel human anymore. He’s alive. Marc knows that. His soul still possesses his body, and until death, when his soul gets removed, he’ll finally pass on. Join everyone else in memory. However, Marc has done that so many times. He’s played the game before. He’s been through the wringer. He’s felt the pain— the cold. 

With how many times he’s died and the brain damage he’s lived with, is he just a soldier to Khonshu or a human? Is there a difference?— there has to be. Those who served under him got used until they became bones. Was there a difference between those who are dead and those who have died multiple times, only to come back again?

Marc rubs his eyes and sighs. He feels the Cloak tighten around him as if trying to provide some sense of comfort. He folds his hands under his head, letting his head lie against them.

Bats stops barking, flopping onto Clea’s legs. She smiles and drags Bats closer, intentionally slowing her attempts to catch up to how much he had gotten done.

Out of the blue, the words fly out of Marc’s mouth, snapping Clea’s attention back to him. “My eyes got altered by working under Khonshu,” he states. 

The area becomes quiet. Too quiet for Marc’s liking. Marc bites his lip, darting his eyes toward the woods instead of Clea. 

He hated talking about working under Khonshu. He hated remembering how he got treated as an it— nothing more than just a vessel for the god. 

Clea clears her throat, pulling Marc out of his spiral. “How was it working under Khonshu?”

“How is it to be a Warlord?” Marc snaps back as if it’s on instinct. He does wonder what it’s like to be one, but it’s also the only quick thing he could use to dodge the question without hesitating.

“I consider myself to be a Warlord, thus having the title. However, I am not a legitimate Warlord. I can easily best them in combat, which I believe should make me qualify as one, but that is not true.” Clea rolls her eyes, scoffing. “However, I am considered royalty .”

“How does that work out for you?” Marc closes his eyes, feeling exhaustion start pecking from underneath the lids. Marc chalks it up to emotional stress and shrugs it off. 

“I am here, am I not? That should be more than enough to tell how it worked out.” Clea shakes her head, scooting herself closer to an empty hole. “For the first part of my life, I lived with banquets and meetings left and right, every day. There was no control. Everything I did was influenced by what my father said and in the mind of Dormammu, who everyone worshiped.” Clea exhales, covering up the seeds. She pauses, looking longingly at the soil.

Marc feels his throat constrict at the sight of Clea’s expression. One wrought with worry and pain. 

He will not relate to Clea Strange, someone he met just weeks ago. No. Not one bit.

“I had no freedom to do what I wanted until I met Stephen.” Clea shrugs. “I didn’t have to think about what my father, or Dormammu, wanted. I had a life, a name, and a friend. It was all so sudden but very needed.” She nods to herself, smiling. “I enjoy where I am right now. I have everything I want.”

Marc will not relate.

The Cloak manages to pull the ends of the fabric underneath Marc’s arms, and he senses his heart as it tightens, like a boa constrictor wrapping itself around it, and words suddenly tumble out of his mouth before he can clamp his jaw shut.

“I understand what you mean about having no control.” He looks at Clea, who has paused from patting down the soil on a new hole. She looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“How so?” Clea inquires, pausing her job once again. 

Marc shrugs, trying his hardest to play it off smoothly but failing miserably. Clea cocks her eyebrows at him, and the Cloak repositions itself as a comfort blanket. It clicks that the end is here for him, and he shoves his head into his hands.

He’s dug himself into this hole. He might as well try and fail miserably to dig himself out.

“My father always thought the best for me,” Marc starts. Alright, not bad. “I ignored him, but the one time I didn’t disregard him, I couldn’t see my family for over a decade.” Not the complete truth, but technically still not a lie. 

He will not share what happened at Putnam’s with Clea. That’s something he hasn’t even told Sterman and Hell, she’s his therapist .

Clea nods and gazes into the woods, scanning the trees before letting her eyes land on Marc. The look in her eyes: Soft and warm, and her hands folded together like she was taking extra precautions to be soft with him. It almost makes him want to scoff at her efforts, but instead, it makes him feel fuzzy. 

“I understand. When I first met Stephen, my father did nothing to stop Dormammu from banishing me. I got torn away from everything I loved in an instant. Multiple times.” Clea brings herself closer to him, and Marc feels his heart skip. She places a hand on his leg and starts caressing her thumb between the grooves of the folds. 

A crack forms at the base of the walls around Marc’s heart; it would’ve been fine if not for how it slowly climbs up the walls, reaching the top and forcing it down. Marc doesn’t even realize what’s happening before Clea speaks speaking again, gently coaxing him back into reality.

“Our family may have wronged us, but we stayed strong and formed a new one. A family who loves us.” Clea smiles at Marc. He stares at her with big, bug eyes. Clea snorts, bringing one hand to scoop up one of Marc’s. “You have the Midnight Mission, and I, the Sanctum. They may not be biological, but they are family, yes?”

Marc nods after a brief pause. He wants this to end and fast . Marc is grabbing at straws, trying to tape together some debris from his walls out of nothing. Clea can see the frantic look hidden in his eyes as he ignores the urge to wriggle away and rebuild his walls, secure and more fortified.

“Then, I believe that is what matters. We should not wallow in the past but wade in the present instead.” Clea smiles warmly, stilling her movement. “We will both do better than what our parents did.” 

Marc wishes that was true.

Clea’s smile fades as she stands, leaving Marc with a pat on the shoulder. She stretches her arms and cracks her neck before addressing Marc on the ground.

“I am going to help Stephen. He’s taking too long.” Clea turns to Bats, who had been doing her work in the background while they talked. He stops covering a hole and trots up beside Clea. “Bats, stay here with Marrrr – …Moon Knight.”

Bats responds with a bark before Clea turns on her heels and walks into the woods. Her figure slowly gets lost in the ashy bushes and trees before disappearing completely. 

A part of him doesn’t want her to leave. However, those thoughts get quickly overshadowed by the repressed agony bubbling up from his heart.

He truly wishes he could do better than his father.

Diatrice deserves better.

Marc shoves his head in his hands, letting out a choked groan. Bats, hearing this, prances to his aid. He flops beside Marc, letting his nose rest against his thigh. The Cloak reciprocates Bats’ idea as it slides a portion of itself to hang over his head, acting as a hood. He pulls the edges of the Cloak together, bundling himself up. 

Everyone who knows him deserves better. 

Yet, he can’t help but miss everyone who doesn’t need him. He misses the Mission. He misses Greer and the movie nights with William. He misses Soldier— he just wants to be taunted by Reese again. G-d, Badr would kill him for everything he just said about him today.

He frowns, eyebrows tilting as he digs his nails into the fabric of the Cloak. It shivers, and Marc swiftly dislodges his hands from the ends and tries to pull himself away from the Cloak but ends up swept further into its embrace. He props himself up against the base of a tree, getting more comfortable as the realization of how the Cloak won’t let him leave sets in. Thoughts swirl out of existence as Bats hops onto his lap, and suddenly his hands are all over the dog, grasping him like it’s the end of the world.

Bats lets out a rumble, shoving his muzzle into the nook of his neck. Marc lays the edges of the Cloak around Bats, effectively forming a cocoon. He feels his frown deepen and his vision haze over.

He’s missed this, being a “cocoon of despair,” as Greer would’ve put it. Hiding away, being lulled to the edges of disassociation, and at the end: Sleeping; by the comfort of a heavy cloak. Even better now, a weightless dog gives more comfort, lapping at his earlobe, checking if everything will be okay.

Greer would scold him, saying how dangerous it is to fall asleep on patrol. Marc would agree. However, he’s gotten too used to doing so under Khonshu’s rule. It’s a habit he knows he needs to break.

He swears Bats is mumbling something, but he can’t help but zone out to the chaos in his chest. It feels like a mosh pit of emotions, where they all try to best the other in fighting. 

Marc sighs, yawning. He just got up. Why is he already tired?

“—he had a secret brother! A brother and you cannot believe the fights they had. Zipping comebacks back and forth. It was worse than the arguments I’ve seen in the Sanctum!” Marc zones into Bats’ rambles as he twists his body to lay more comfortably against Marc’s chest. “That was the first episode, whoof .”

Marc rubs his eye and slightly smiles as he holds Bats closer, listening to his rambles about the newest show those in the Sanctum had been watching. 

He doesn’t want to let go of Bats. Marc doesn’t want to be left alone again. He doesn’t want anything to happen. Marc just wants to lie there, holding Bats for dear life, silently begging not to be abandoned again. Not to be cast away like he has been.

He shifts around until his legs don’t threaten to fall asleep. He blinks, sighing as he tugs the Cloak closer. It complies, allowing Marc to curl into its embrace, even if only for a few minutes. The thoughts in his mind melt, draining through his body and making the world feel like a syrupy mess. 

Marc yawns, leaning his head against the Cloak until he’s comfortable enough for it not to feel like he’s slipping. He stares at the golden embroidery around the red fabric, etching each design to memory until his eyes burn. 

Marc closes his eyes and strokes Bats’ head, following a rhythm that allows him to lull himself into a sense of security.

He wishes the feeling could last forever, but Marc knows he’ll snap to life once everyone returns from the stream. He’ll shake Bats off as fast as possible and pull himself back into the groove of making fun of Strange whenever he tries to pour water on the covered holes.

It’s only a matter of time until all of it is gone.

It’s only a matter of time.

Chapter Text

Wong folds his arms, eyeing those in the room. He clears his throat; the conversations in the background dies off into mild whispering. He can work with this.

When they entered the Mission, the Avengers were going to work toward an interrogation after announcing the predicament their boss— Spector, was in. However, once entering, everyone working opposed an interrogation. The one in the red sweatshirt— Soldier— had been vocally against it, albeit quietly, which the one in the yellow sweater— Reese— seconded it very vocally. Almost physically. Greer had to diffuse the situation, and in seconds the taller man— Hunters Moon— had hatched out an idea. He suggested they would announce what they had to say and go from there, eliminating all sense of interrogation that the Avengers planned for.

Wong was starting to like Hunters Moon. He was the more mellow of the bunch, having made tea for everyone as they sat. Additionally, the blinds had been opened by him, exposing everyone to the warm light of the moon. 

Surprisingly, it replaced the tension with a sentiment of easiness as everyone began to lounge around and pick their spots. T’Challa stands in the back. If it weren’t for the table collapsing underneath T’Challa at the beginning, he would’ve crouched down on it and stayed there, but now he’s squished between Thor and Greer. Vision leans against a windowsill across from Wilson, who is leaning against the sofa in front. On it sits Reese, Soldier, Hunters Moon, and Wanda. Hunters Moon is the barrier between the two vampires and the Avengers on the other side, which Stark lounges on the loveseat beside Wanda. Danvers stands next to Wong, aiding him in intimidation factor with her scowl toward Stark to end his conversation.

Here everyone was: Huddled around, waiting on the edge of their seat to be either told for a second time— Avengers— or for the first time that those gone missing in the Sanctum are either dead or alive. The deciding factor for this intrusion into the Midnight Mission was Vision’s calculations, which served to say that those in the building were very much dead, with a lesser chance of them being alive. 

It shook Wong’s core to think that as quickly as Stephen got resurrected, he was taken back into death's embrace again. However, there was still a chance of them being alive. The possibility was lesser than ten percent, but there was still a chance.

That’s all they needed.

Wong takes a deep breath and allows the information to flow through his body again before speaking. In his peripheral, he sees Danvers giving him a reassuring nod, and he finally voices what everyone came here for.

Wong opens his mouth and Greer interrupts. “We know.” She states, sashaying to the back of the couch, away from her spot next to T’Challa. As she leaves her old position, Wong takes it upon himself to ignore the object flung at T’Challa from an unknown source. “I saw you all at the Sanctum. You’re coming to tell us that he’s dead. Aren’t you?”

Wong notices the three others in the Mission tense up on the couch as the house lets out a loud, guttural groan. The walls vibrate, and he quickly grabs onto a table to stabilize himself. Some of the wallpaper splits off, and the lights flicker before the bulb shatters. Wong sucks in a breath. The House of Shadows is not happy.

Hunters Moon glances at the two beside him. He offers a hand. Soldier takes it. Soldier reciprocates the same thing for Reese, and she also takes it. Reese places a hand on the armrest, making circles with her fingers that calm the shaking into mild vibrations. 

“What the hell?” Wong hears Stark and Wilson mutter under their breath before a vase gets thrown in Wilson's direction, and Stark’s loveseat disappears from underneath him, leaving him on the ground. Within the chaos, T’Challa narrowly dodges a knife. Thor catches it and hands it to him.

“I will not sugarcoat this. Everyone in the Sanctum is more than likely dead.” Wong nods, ignoring Stark stumbling back onto his feet, only to be pelted back down with objects thrown at him. “By Vision’s calculations, there is still a chance for everyone to be alive. However, since there are many variables we do not know, like where they went, for example, we cannot be sure of their status.”

“But there is a chance.” Danvers proclaims, and Stark suddenly stops being bombarded by flying objects. “Even if that chance is low, we’ll still take it. We are Avengers. We don’t stop fighting because there are low percentages of us winning. We keep on fighting, no matter what. Even in death, we fight. So, what we truly came here to proclaim was…”

Danvers smirks at Wong, and he nods, getting the cue to finish her sentence. 

“Do you want to save Marc Spector?”

Not a second passes before someone answers, for which Wong is grateful. Hopefully, that eased the House of Shadows and amplified everyone’s spirits. 

“That shouldn’t be a question. Give us what to do, and we’ll do it.” Hunters Moon responds, getting reciprocated feelings back as head nods and grins from the ones surrounding him. 

Stark lets out a relieved cheer as he floats to the side of Danvers, a grin plastered on his face.

“That was much easier than I thought.” Stark heaves out, relief flooding him and every other Avenger in the room. “You know it would’ve been better if you said: ‘Do you want to be an Avenger?’ Instead of what you said, but brownie points for trying and— ah, what the heck? Do you have a piece of paper, a whiteboard, or anything around here? We need to get planning how we’re going to do this!”

Even under the mask, Wong can see Hunters Moon raise an eyebrow at the comment. Greer rolls her eyes and proceeds to glare at Danvers as she sighs and puts her hands on her hips. 

“We have half of a plan. Not an entire one, but we have the information to build one.” Danvers clarifies. “A whiteboard would be a better option for planning. Do you have one anywhere inside this building?”

Greer huffs, folding her arms. She looks up at the ceiling and clicks her tongue. 

“Mission,” she begins. The Avengers’ eyes dart to her, confused. Everyone else rolls their eyes at the confusion or snicker, as Reese and Soldier do. “Bring a whiteboard down here and a few markers. Clean up your mess and apologize to the two you attacked.”

The house vibrates. A whiteboard flies out from the ceiling, hitting the floor and almost falling over. Stark and Danvers quickly grab each side of it, propping it back on its wheels. Markers and an eraser are attached to the board by magnets. The whiteboard already has scribbled-down writing, words like ‘Mining Operation?’, ‘no chorus - thank you Khonshu’ — a few dates, words above describing it as ‘prison sessions with Pelesko’ with an X over it, a phone number, and pictures that Wong swiftly cleans off and places on a table. 

Wong’s eyes catch on a picture of six people outside the Midnight Mission, each baring smiles. He frowns, identifying them all as those who work here and William, Greer’s son, before heading off to the whiteboard, trying to shrug it off.

Wong fails miserably, but it’s the thought that counts. The idea that everyone is as attached to Spector as he is to Stephen makes why the house loathes any suggestion of the Avengers being here more sense. As well as every reaction he’s managed to catch made by those working there.

No one is used to losing those they love.

“Mission, clean up your mess and apologize.” Greer repeats, a growl catching itself in the back of her throat. Her reprimand snaps Wong out of his daze, and he swiftly gathers himself, joining Danvers beside the board. 

Everyone watches the shattered vase and other objects get sucked into the floor. The floorboards around Wilson and Stark vibrate, making the two stare at the ground in fear, believing it would collapse underneath them, before looking up toward Greer. T’Challa stands there, unamused.

Greer pats the couch, praising the house. Multiple, even more, confused expressions contrast with the amused as Wong grabs one of the markers. He clicks open the cap, letting it clack against the ground before sighing. He flicks the marker against his knuckles, pursing his lips.

“The building is sentient. It will join us in this discussion.” Wong explains, smirking at the expressions of betrayal across Reese and Soldier’s faces. The Avengers’ faces fall into a mild look of surprise before neutralizing to a sense of not being shocked. They’ve all seen weirder.

“This building is not the only one that should make amends.” Thor narrows his eyes to T’Challa, his voice booming across the room. Reese and Solider cover their ears, and T’Challa turns his head away from the god. “You know your comment about tying the explosion to the Knight of Moons has ruffled some feathers in this household. Apologiz .”

T’Challa huffs and crosses his arms. “I apologize. Fair?” 

“Good enough,” Greer mutters, voice laced with venom. She places a hand on Hunters Moon’s shoulder, and he hums in response. The Mission continues to vibrate out of rage, not taking his apology.

“Thee nay.” Thor scowls, rolling his eyes. 

Danvers whistles and clicks a marker against the board to bring everyone’s attention back. Stark also holds a pen, ready to write whatever needs to be on the board.

“We know from energy signatures that the portal created reached a different dimension. However, in Wong’s words, it was not strong enough to reach multiple dimensions. Only one.” Danvers states. Stark writes: ‘They are in the same dimension’ in big, capital letters at the top of the board. “Wong?” She inquires, turning toward him to take the lead.

Wong nods and swats Stark away from the board before drawing a small circle. He points at it, “This is our dimension.” He states before sketching other rings that are not connected. “Every faction here is a different dimension. They have different properties and look completely different from one another. However, you can draw a line through the two—” he swiftly connects two circles. “The attachment is a bridge between the two worlds. That is what the portal created. It was not strong enough to create multiple bridges.”

Wong swiftly erases the line and then connects each circle with a continuous line. “However, each dimension is already connected through the Crossroads. The Crossroads is a dimension that allows travelers to get anywhere in the universe. If Stephen Strange is alive, he will likely use them to go home. We will use them to our advantage as well to aid our search if he has not made it to the dimension.” Wong states, then erases the diagram made on the board. He writes under Stark’s writing: ‘Strange will likely use the Crossroads. As so will we.’

“Maximoff, may you conjure the scroll to show the feat we are about to accomplish?” Wong sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Wanda nods and waves her hands, letting red sparks form a rolled-up piece of paper before handing it to Wong. 

Wong unravels it, takes a magnet from the pile of pictures he took off the board, and places it under the text. Greer flops her head down beside Hunters Moon’s, and he nods in familiarity. A long, long list is on the paper. The end hangs off the board, curling back into its original form.

“As you can see, looking for them is not going to be easy.” Danvers crosses her arms, eyeing the piece of paper. “We have almost three-hundred dimensions to account for, those documented. Undocumented? Vision?”

“Millions.” Vision grimaces, gripping the windowsill tighter. 

“Do you see why we said there was a small chance?” Danvers asks, expression softening at those working in the building’s subtle nods. Wanda jumps when the couch starts vibrating, and everyone else feels a wave of relief wash over them as the house stops shaking. 

“All the dimensions listed are the ones we found on the Shield, Sword, and WAND databases. However, we decided to hold off on ancient manuscripts until we got a team to look for the missing.” Stark furthers the explanation, writing down the word: ‘Team?’ with an arrow pointing to the paper.

“Is there going to be a quicker way to search through all the dimensions? It’s been seven days, counting today, since they’ve been gone; eight for Marc.” Greer gets up from leaning on the couch and assumes what Wong can only imagine as an intimidating stance because Stark slinks back behind Danvers, and everyone seems to advert their eyes away from her. 

She is furious. Wong blinks, looking at Vision and Stark for an answer. They had made a gizmo thing that Wong was oblivious to how it worked for this. That’s one reason why it had taken two days, three counting today, to get all of the Avengers in this building. The second reason was their planning if anything went wrong. Neither wanted an angry Greer on them, and he could see why.

Who decided to show up and say that they were interrogating everyone? Isn’t that the most stressful idea?

Wong shakes his head, allowing Vision to step next to him and reveal a gadget from his palm. He notes how Soldier brings himself forward, squinting at the tech before him.

“Beings with such power, such as Stephen Strange and Clea, have different energy signatures than those who do not practice the mystic arts. Using this, we can figure out where their signatures reside.” Vision slides it on his wrist, and a holographic screen appears. He clicks a few buttons, and a red dot appears close to where the screen has placed Vision as a white dot.

“It’s not fool-proof,” Stark adds, side-stepping next to Vision. Soldier slides back, his face scrunched up in mild disappointment. “It attaches to those who practice mystic arts, or any magic, for they share the same signature. So, it’s sensing Wong and Wanda.” Stark puts on a coy smile, and Hunters Moon sighs, shaking his head.

“What? It’s rather strenuous to throw together a piece of technology this advanced! In two days, no less!” Stark exclaims, exasperated. Vision puts up his hand, stopping Stark’s further complaints.

“I believe there is an easier way to do this.” Hunters Moon proclaims, sitting back up. “Is there any way to attach it to a different signature? One not being someone who practices mystic arts, but much rarer?” 

Stark hums, letting Vision slip off the watch. He grabs it from him and begins to toy around with the screen until a screen pops up saying ‘scan?’ in big, bolded letters with an X and a checkmark underneath. 

Stark gives Hunters Moon a thumbs up. “We thought of it beforehand in case we wanted to use something like this in the future. The gadget could be useful with scientific research.” Stark states, waving his hand around. Hunters Moon nods, standing up from the couch.

“Am I right to assume there are magic users in every dimension?” Hunters Moon asks Wong, to which he replies with a brief nod. “Therefore, you will find hundreds of magic users and take more time than is needed. This plan is not foolproof because you have not found the correct being to scan. To cut down the numbers, I suggest scanning someone like myself. A non-magic user, but still different, for I have a connection to a higher being. Literally.” 

Stark squints at Hunters Moon, about to brush it off as nonsense, before T’Challa speaks up, agreeing. 

“Those used as vessels for a god are slim compared to the number of magic users. It would radically change the numbers.” T’Challa confirms, nodding. Hunters Moon cocks his head to the side as if saying, ‘I told you so’ at Stark before folding his hands together.

“Most gods do not have avatars like the Knight of Moons. Khonshu is one of the few.” Thor furthers Hunters Moon’s and T’challa’s point, obviously rubbing it in. 

“So, finding Spector would be easier than finding Strange and Clea?” Wilson paraphrases, leaning against the couch on his arms beside Greer. “Why not scan big guy over here and get with it?”

“If we want to go further, we could even scan a ghost to make it slimmer. Bats is one, after all.” Danvers grins. Stark grimaces, knowing that she’s rubbing it in by now.  

“There’s no rhyme or reason to the scan. Just stand there.” Stark sighs, ignoring Danvers’ attempt to get under his skin. He brings the watch up to Badr’s chest, which he finds is inches taller than him— even in the suit— and presses the checkmark. The screen buffers briefly before pinging and redirecting Stark to the tracking section, where only one red dot shows beside the white dot.

“Did it work?” Hunters Moon inquires, stepping back toward the couch. Stark nods, a smile plastered on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, you can sit back down.” Stark waves Hunters Moon away. He sits down and returns his hand to Soldier’s, who grasps it tightly. “I will never get used to realizing that this works.” Stark laughs, turning the gadget off. 

“If we discover Spector, we find everyone… Thinking that they’re not separated. However, if they are separated, we have a starting point to look at.” Danvers proclaims, shooing everyone away from the whiteboard. Wong continues to stand on the adjacent side of her.

“So,” Danvers points at the word ‘Team?’ before grinning. “This is where we need to brainstorm; everything up to this point we planned out. Now, we’re going into unknown territory.” 

Danvers clears her throat and gestures to everyone from the back to stand closer. They circle the couch, forming a line that starts from Wong and ends at Greer. She points at T’Challa first, and Wong quickly writes, ‘Team one’ and underneath ‘T’Challa.’

“Team one will be one of the teams going in and out of dimensions. T’Challa, I trust you to lead this expedition. Everyone will have no idea what they will encounter, and thus I need someone with your skills and patience to lead.” Danvers proclaims, earning a nod from T’Challa. She spins to Vision, and Wong adds his name to the list.

“Vision, you will accompany T’Challa. You need to be the eyes of this team in an unfamiliar world. Anything dangerous; you will know of instantly by your processing systems. If any technology circuits out, you will be there to help. Additionally, if anything puts the team in harm's way, I trust you will aid them like you always have with finesse and strength.” Danvers nods at Vision, and he copies.

“For team two, I will be a part of it, as well as Wilson.” Danvers points to him, and Wong writes, ‘Team two’ and underneath ‘Wilson’ and ‘Danvers.’ “I will lead this team, and Wilson, I trust that you will have my back and everyone else’s at a moment's notice. If anything goes wrong, I know you’ll be able to help. Physically and emotionally.” Danvers smiles.

“I don’t know how much help I can be, but thank you, cap.” Wilson folds his arms, chuckling.

Before Danvers can point at another person, Greer raises her hand. Danvers nods, acknowledging it, and she lowers her hand to speak.

“I suggest putting Hunters Moon and I on separate teams. If we find Marc, he’ll need at least one of us.” Greer points out. Hunters Moon nods, agreeing with her statement. 

“Alright,” Danvers clicks her tongue, pondering. “Greer, you’re on team two. We’ll need your agility. Hunters Moon, you’ll be on team one.” Wong swiftly writes their names under the respective teams. “You two,” she points at Soldier and Reese. “Are on team three. You both are staying here and helping Wong look through texts to figure out other undocumented dimensions.”

The two shrug and nod, expecting this. Wong adds a new team list and adds their name to the pile. Danvers points at Thor and then whips her hand to team one. Wong writes his name under it as she starts speaking.

“Thor, we’ll need you as a tank for team one. Yes, everyone is strong, but you’re a god. Whatever is against them, I know you can overcome it. You’re also a king and good with people. You and T’Challa together can calm anything down if you encounter anyone.” Danvers speaks highly, nodding to herself. Thor hits his chest with a fist back at her, accepting his position.

“Wanda, you’ll be with me. Your strength is helpful, but your magic comes even more into play. You are strong in your usage of sorcery, and it will aid our team in overcoming anything without many scratches.” Danvers explains, stepping aside to let Wong write her name down under team two.

“Lastly is you, Stark .” She points at him, grinning. “You’re staying here. If anything goes wrong from one of our ends, it is up to you to come and get us. We’ll let you know if we need backup from our engineer, and if we do, you better come in full swing.” Danvers demands with a determined smile across her face. “As you always do.” She adds as Wong finishes writing and steps back.

“Anything to add?” Danvers asks, looking amongst the crowd. Everyone acknowledges her with a shake of the head or a no. 

“Then, I believe we shall start our journey. Vision, please give Hunters Moon and Greer the coms. It’ll allow us to communicate if anything goes awry.” Danvers says, watching Vision hand over two coms, and the two adjust them into their ears, albeit awkwardly for Hunters Moon, who has to slip off his mask to his nose to fit it. 

“Remember, this is a search and rescue mission. Avoid any conflict if possible. Stark, hand over the gadget to Vision, and remember: Your suit connects to the gadgets made. If anything goes wrong, you’ll be alerted by them.” Danvers cues everyone to stand as she slips out the same gadget from one of the pockets, turning it on and allowing it to boot up. She swaps over the tracking to the data collected from Hunters Moon’s scan, then swipes the list from the board, tears it in two, and hands T’Challa the other half.

Wong watches as the teams awkwardly shuffle around into two clumps, getting ready, before he opens up one portal to the Crossroads. 

“From here, there will be signs directing everyone where to go. I wish you all the best of luck.” Wong steps to the slide, allowing the teams to funnel through. They walk through as if they aren’t entering a maze of dimensions and roads, sometimes leading nowhere. 

Wong sighs, stepping back to close the portal once everyone has entered. He turns to the three left here, watching as Stark dives into a conversation with the two kids. Wong swallows a groan of disappointment and tries to address them, only to be pulled into the conversation himself. He grabs a teacup from the table and sits down. 

It has been a wild couple of days, Wong sighs, getting more comfortable against the couch. I can decompress.

But after I have to work.

I have to.

By Hoggoth, I will get nothing done with these three.

Chapter Text

The area surrounding the four is lush with foliage— a stark contrast to what was there before, which was nothing but ash. Marc’s good leg bounces up and down in anticipation, ready to wrench the newly sprouted plants from the forest ground. He had been waiting for days. It was all he could think about. However, Clea had been adamant about a group discussion for today and halted any excitement felt by placing everyone in a circle and demanding them to sit down. 

Clea stands across from Strange and Marc, who sit side by side. She narrows her eyes at the two men, her face expressing repressed, unbridled anger ready to be released.

The four days, five counting today, since digging the garden were hazy to Marc. He had been too exhausted to realize things were going on like Strange actively avoiding him. Clea had gone off on Strange in front of everyone when she found out, and he decided that, maybe, he should always stay on Clea’s good side. 

Yet, Marc was intelligent enough to know that he wouldn’t be on her good side if she knew why he had been so tired, so he kept it under wraps— literally— underneath Strange’s sash, tightly tied around his leg so nobody could see the infection in his injury, slowly worsening with time.

Nobody needed another thing on their plate to worry about. So, he’ll deal with the aches and fatigue. 

Only a few more days left, Marc sighs. I can make it.

“Today, we will all get along.” Clea smiles. Strange shakes his head and looks away from her. “Or, pardon me, but all of you will get along, or so Hoggoth help me…! ” She raises her voice, commanding Strange to turn back toward her. Marc blinks, staying silent in order not to face her wrath.

“I know you have been avoiding Moon Knight like the plague,” Clea turns to Strange. “And he has fed into this with his remarks— which none are to be said today—” She turns to Marc, pointing a finger toward him. He sucks in his lips and looks away from Clea. Most of them had been from Jake, but she didn’t need to know that. “We have a long trip ahead, so the both of you need to learn to find something tolerable within each other. You will get along. Bats?”

Clea looks down at Bats, who barks excitedly. “I’m the referee! If any snotty remark gets said by anyone or an argument sprouts between you two, I’ll sound the alert.”

Marc glances at Strange, whose head is in his hands. He smirks and looks back at Bats, who seems proud of his new position. 

As Clea opens her mouth to speak, pain courses through Marc’s body, forcing his mind to teeter from reality and the inner world. He pulls himself together, clutching tightly onto the front as he shudders, tugging the Cloak closer to him. The world feels like water around him, founded by the sudden jolt of dissociation, but he’s used to it; this was one of the lesser aches. 

Marc sniffles, rubbing his eyes and trying to focus back on the conversation, but he only catches the tail end.

“Is all of that clear?” Clea crosses her arms and tilts her head to the side. Strange nods. Marc quickly repeats the same action, knowing nothing of what she’s said. “Alright, now, jobs. Moon Knight? May you take the lead here?”

Marc yawns, standing up. The Cloak continues to take some of the weight off from walking, but his injury continues to throb as he takes Clea’s spot. She swaps with him and stands behind Strange.

“We have an entire afternoon to uproot every vegetable in this garden, clean them, and put them in my duffle bag,” Marc states, cringing internally at the evening when they went through the bag. He had to explain the laser pointer. However, they did find painkillers, which Marc quickly went through in three days. “Strange and Clea are on uprooting duty. I can clean them off and put them in the bag. Bats, you’re on referee duty.” He waves his hand toward the people he’s addressing, stopping when his mind goes through a buzz of fog. “If you need help with anything, ask me. I’ll help out.”

“Let’s get this done.” Strange huffs, standing and approaching the garden. Clea follows suit. Marc drags himself over to the bucket of water they had set up before the group discussion, and everyone clicks into action.

A beat of silence washes over the four. Bats floats around the garden, spying on the two’s work as they continuously pull vegetables from the ground. The sun falls along the tips of the trees, making the world look milky and soft as light refracts off the ashy wasteland. The two moons are barely visible in the sky, a mere insight into the night. Marc hums, folding his arms over the bucket of water and leaning his head down, trying to soothe a growing headache. 

“How did you get into gardening?” Clea calls over, pulling up a carrot from her spot. Marc sleepily tugs his head from his spot, opting to lay against the Cloak instead. 

“Mm’it was a hobby.” Marc shrugs, suppressing another yawn. He blames the Cloak for being comfortable and making him tired rather than the sickness racking through his body.  

Maybe there was more to the story— more about how the hobby began as a way to cope with the death that surrounds him daily— how everyone around him dies constantly, even those he loves, but he doesn’t make a vague comment. Instead, he opts to shut his mouth and bring his attention to his job as Clea marches up with a handful of vegetables to clean. She places them on the ground and rushes back to her spot. 

Marc picks up one of the vegetables from the batch, swiftly going to work cleaning off the soil that clings onto it like a lifeline. He hums, feeling the cold water engulf his hands. 

Marc wishes he could wade inside the water to try to cool down his body and forget that he is violently sick, but he shoves the thought away before it becomes too tempting. Instead, he compensates by letting his hands hang in the water for a bit longer before tossing the clean vegetable into the duffle bag next to him.

…The same clean vegetable Bats snatches in his mouth and skitters a few feet away, out of Marc’s reach, before sitting and staring at him with a devious glint in his eyes. Marc sighs, dropping the next few vegetables in the water before glaring at the ghost.

“Bats,” Marc scolds. He extends his hand, waving him down before the dog spins around to the other side of him. “I’m too tired for this.” He grumbles, going back to work. 

The Cloak, with ease, detaches itself from his shoulders and shoots toward Bats, wrapping around the vegetable and tearing it out of his mouth. Now triumphant, it floats back toward Marc, drops it into the duffle bag, and reclaims its spot on his shoulders. 

“Aww, come on.” Bats whines, trotting to Marc’s legs and flopping onto his back. His nose grazes his ankles, and the sudden chill makes another ache shoot through Marc’s body, forcing him to stop cleaning and concentrate on not disassociating. 

Through the nose, Marc breathes in. Out the mouth, he exhales, placing a hand on Bats’ stomach. He looks down, squinting through the hazy fog his mind has plunged into. Bats’ head tilts to the side, his floppy ears falling over his jaw.

“Later,” Marc compromises. He pats Bats’ stomach before turning back to his work. “I’m not in the mood.”

“You were always in the mood before.” Bats huffs, getting up from the ground and sitting across from him on the other side of the bucket. Marc stills his movements, looking up curiously, only to find the dog scanning over his features before spinning around and marching over to Strange. He makes himself comfortable against his legs before looking up at the sorcerer.

“Doc, how far of a trip will this be?” Bats questions, resting his jaw firmly against the ground. Strange pauses his movements, nestling his hands under the plants. Marc stops as well, gears clicking in his head. His eyes go wide with realization, and he manages to hide it before anyone realizes it.

The dog knows. Marc has to remind himself to breathe as he speeds up cleaning the vegetables. How in the hell—

“It’ll take a few days, give or take.” Strange starts back up on pulling vegetables out from the ground. “For the past few days, as you know, you’ve accompanied me— I’ve been scouting around the border of this place. It seems to look like there’s a snowy patch, and then through there, it should be a castle. The gateway between dimensions should be there.” 

“Can we make the trip faster?” Bats inquires. Strange scoots further down the row of plants to pull more from the ground, and Bats gets up from his spot to sit back down next to him. Strange chuckles, placing his hand on Bats’ head.

“I understand that we all want to return home— we haven’t had showers in a week, but why the sudden worry?” Strange smiles, softly caressing his ears. Clea stands, scooping up the vegetables the two have pulled, and places them next to Marc. The sudden movement allows Marc to let his eyes trail to the sorcerer, enabling him to see the soft moment unfold between the two. He’s never seen Strange act like this.

It’s actually kind of nice.

“Nothin’. Just wanted to know.” Bats sighs, closing his eyes. He leans further into Strange’s touch as a question pops into Marc’s mind. He has no idea if it’ll start an argument, but if the anxiety suddenly bubbling inside his stomach is any indication, he has to ask it.

“Will we be able to open the gateway?” Marc asks, instantly regretting it with the glare Strange shoots at him. He feels the Cloak drift slowly off his shoulders, returning to Strange’s side. Somehow, it makes him look more menacing.

“Are you doubting my abilities?” Strange raises his voice, his grey eyes on fire with ferociousness. Marc slinks away from him, squishing himself between the bucket and a fallen tree. Bats’ head perks up, Clea frowns in front of him, still standing, and Marc feels like the world is caving around him. The worst began in a few seconds tops, something he didn’t want. 

Bats begins to bark, and Clea raises her hand to silence him. She frowns at the two and crouches down to their level.

“Now, Stephen.” She turns to her husband, who looks half betrayed, half seething. “This sudden outburst. Why do you feel like he is doubting your abilities? There was no venom behind the question he asked, my champion.” 

“We can talk about this later.” Strange pulls a vegetable from the ground, gritting his teeth. 

Clea sighs and takes the plant out of his hands, putting it to the side and cupping his hands inside of hers. Bats takes the cue to get up from Strange’s side and lay beside Marc’s instead. Bats places his jaw against Marc’s knee and propels himself forward, wiggling onto his lap. He lets him, too enthralled with the sudden commotion.

“There will be no later. I know how your brain works.” Clea smiles, devious and malicious. “We will talk about this right now.” She clicks her tongue and stands, going to the side and nodding toward Strange to begin. 

Strange looks between Bats, Clea, and Marc before letting out a long sigh, deflating. He hangs himself against the Cloak and shakes his head. Marc goes to speak, but Clea raises her hand and silences him. He clamps his mouth shut and shoves his head against his arms, closing his eyes and letting another spout of aches wash over him. 

Did you start another argument? Steven pipes up, and Marc holds back his yelp of terror, not realizing the sudden feeling of him co-fronting. He catches his breath and blinks a few times, trying to shove away the sick feeling coursing through the body far from Steven.

No. Strange yelled at me. Clea stopped it, and now she’s forcing him to talk about his feelings. I swear she looked up "how to stop arguments" on the internet and is trying to see if it works.  Marc rolls his eyes, uncrossing his legs for Bats. Bats readjusts his spot and flops back down against Marc. He swears he hears Steven chuckle at the sight.

“We are not each other’s favorite person.” Strange begins, and it instantly pulls Marc out of his conversation with Steven. “We’re merely co-workers, so it’s easy for me to make the step to assume how he would doubt my capabilities in the Mystic Arts and my job as Sorcerer Supreme.” Steven groans, crossing his arms. He diverts his eyes from the three and quickly mumbles: “...even in dire situations, such as this, where we cannot afford to fail.”

Clea nods and then turns to Marc, prompting him to speak. Marc’s eyes widen as Steven, who looms over the scene, holds back his laughter. He composes himself and pats Marc on the shoulder.

Do not respond with a witty remark. Keep it serious. Additionally, if you say anything perceived as rude, count your days because Clea looks like she’s about to murder you. Steven helps, pointing at the two and waving his hand around. Better yet, work with Strange’s fear of not being seen as capable and twist it into a sort of vision as though you idolize him. 

I don’t idolize him. I never will. Marc barks back in his head, frowning. That’s unrealistic. 

Just tell him the opposite of what he thought, and you’ll be in the clear. That’s what I mean. Steven rushes out, watching as Clea’s frown deepens. 

Thank you, Steven. Marc sighs and positions his hands to steeple in front of his face. He hears Steven audibly groan at the sight.

“Correct. We do not see eye to eye often. We are co-workers. However, even co-workers have a mild amount of respect for the peers they work with.” Marc sighs and places his hands down, feeling Steven prod heavily at the front to lower his hands. “I never doubted your capabilities. You are one of the strongest people in the universe. You have made that very clear over the years.”

Marc stops, biting his lip. He watches as confusion about whether or not he’ll continue wash over the crowd. Even Steven gives him a mental shove to continue.

“I was voicing a concern of mine. I never meant for it to seem like I was doubting you. Far from it. I’m just worried that we will not be able to get back to Earth.” Marc spills out, clunky and uncoordinated. Steven gives him a pat on the back for effort as the confusion in the audience transfers to understanding. 

“It’s been a week since we’ve arrived here. It’s hard not to worry about what’s happening back at home when there’s not much to do but sit around and, I don’t know, wait for plants to grow.” Marc complains. He just wants to take the world's longest shower known to man, watch a movie with Greer, and pass out forever. 

Strange nods and leans forward to rest his arms against his legs. Bats shuffles in his lap, placing him further against Marc’s chest rather than curled in his lap. He can feel Bats’ claws threaten to dig into his skin as he clambers onto him.

“My apologies, I misunderstood,” Strange says. “All of us are tired and stressed out. I can say for myself that I haven’t slept well for this entire week. I do hear your point. I also worry about what is going on back on Earth.” He manages to sympathize, and Clea gives a slow, silent clap, pleased with how this is going. “But, I swear by the shades of Seraphim, we will return. I assure you that you will return to the House of Shadows.” Strange turns to Clea and smiles. “And the Sanctum will be rebuilt.”

“Yeah, well,” Marc shrugs, tossing a vegetable into the water to start working again. “If you need a place to stay when the Sanctum gets rebuilt, the Mission has a free guest room.”

“Thank you for the offer. We may take you up on it.” Strange states, getting back to work as well. “However, I know the House of Shadows is not particularly fond of Clea or I.”

“The Midnight Mission,” Marc mumbles. “Mission will be okay. I’ll make sure to feed him his favorite things to compensate.”

Strange shakes his head, smirking. Marc raises an eyebrow at the sorcerer as Clea elbows him in the side and starts working again. 

Can I indulge you on something I would prefer if you said to Strange? Steven inquires once everyone is silently chipping away at their tasks. Marc nods, humming in acknowledgment. He has a problem with failing those around him, obviously. Furthermore, he is stressed out. Far more than he lets on. A little bit like you, hm?

So, what? You want me to tell him it’ll all be alright? Marc scoffs, rolling his eyes. If you think that’ll do anything, you’re wrong.

Far from it, Steven states, not even a second later. One of the easiest things to do is relate to someone to show them they aren’t alone. You’ve done it before with the Mission and, most recently, Clea. Say you understand where he’s coming from, and you think the opposite! 

Didn’t I just say that by mentioning how powerful he is? You told me that would be the best course of action. You’re the finding tone indicators guy, not me. Marc violently shoves another vegetable into the water, scrubbing it off quickly. He’s getting fed up with this already.

I do not care if you believe you said your words already. There’s much more you want to say— there always is, and if you two do not stop fighting like feral alley cats— So help me G-d— I will tear you from the front and do it myself.

Marc frowns, suppressing an audible groan. He mentally shoves Steven away before taking a look at Strange.

His hair is all over the place. Marc’s not used to seeing it so unkept, but everything about everyone is so disgustingly dirty that it makes him want to die, so it isn’t that unusual. The Cloak stays on his shoulders and continuously aids them by carrying the vegetables to Marc. It makes him wonder if the Cloak is sentient, but that’s another question for another time.

His eyebrows are creased, and his face has dropped from the smirk he once bore to a deep frown. Now and again, he’ll stop pulling vegetables to gaze along the forest, looking deep in thought.

Yeah, maybe he has more to say. 

You should compliment his cheekbones while you’re at it. They are to die for. Steven whispers as if they could hear him, and Marc forcefully tugs him far away from the front. He doesn’t need a sexuality crisis on top of everything else. Even worse, he’s married. He is not going to hit on Clea’s husband.

Strange goes to gaze upon the forest again, and Marc sees it as his time to strike, but the words instantly get clogged in his throat. He tries to pry them out but fails miserably and manages to make a few strangled noises before finally untangling them and pulling them out of his mouth.

“I know what it’s like to feel like you’re failing or going to fail everyone, Strange. But you’re not.” Marc coughs up, and everyone perks up, stopping what they’re doing. He feels his anxiety bubble back up in his stomach, and his throat clenches around his words again. He takes a few seconds to decompress to get his throat to untighten and continues. “You are Doctor fucking Strange. The Strongest sorcerer in the universe— Clea, I apologize— I don’t see how you could fail us or anyone .”

Clea blinks, looking at Strange, whose eyes are wide. He smiles wearily and leans away from his work, folding his hands together. “I’ve failed many people before. It is always a residual fear in the back of my mind, and yours as well, from what I see.” Marc goes to tell him off, but Steven bats him away. “It is common, especially in our work, even though I would not like it to be. We save some, and we lose some, but in the end, we fail everyone. We fail them by entrusting them that the system will help them with more than we offer, which is inaccurate. The system ruins lives by giving people unpayable bills, putting them in unrealistic situations where one cannot survive, and much more.”

Marc can feel Steven looking at the scene unfolding with wide eyes. He feels him mentally get closer to him, pressing their shoulders together. Marc feels a pit grow inside of his stomach. He did not think this line of conversation would go in this direction. Neither did Steven.

He doesn’t want to think about how putting him in Putnams, where people said he’d get better, like his disorder is a sickness, ruined his life. They lied. All of them did, and now he’s worse for it. 

“Everyone fails the people by not helping them on a personal level. That is why I followed in your and Maximoff’s footsteps. I opened a place for people to come and ask for help so I was on everyone else’s level instead of in the sky like a god.” Strange furthers his exposition. “It’s not like the cops will do anything we do.”

“I knew you copied Moon Knight!” Clea butts in, letting out a laugh. “Sorry, I had to say that. You threatened divorce when I compared the Sanctum to the Mission!” 

Hold on, Marc’s eyebrows furrow. I did not know I was that influential.

Marc. Steven laughs, shaking his head. How many kids stay at the Mission for hours? For no reason? You don’t have to do anything grand to be an inspiration to someone. Doing something small, like giving someone a gift, can inspire the gift receiver to give you back one as well. 

Steven, last time I checked, the most “influential” thing I had ever done was cut someone’s face off. Marc rolls his eyes, looking away from him. 

Do you understand the word influential?

“Yes, yes, laugh it up.” Strange chuckles, stealing a quick kiss from Clea. She wraps her hand with his as she clicks their foreheads together. He feels a buzz in his chest, which he pushes off as the sickness and nothing else. It’s not like he respects Strange to a point where he would love to be more than co-workers. 

It’s not how he was respectful when Jake pestered Marc to tell them about Shabbos, which many people he’s talked to were confused and downright rude about not respecting. It’s not how he’s calculating, clever, and too observant for his own good. It’s especially not about how, in a part of his mind, he knows there is some connection between him and the Cloak, but he can’t put his finger on it.

The sudden burst of energy and warm feeling coursing through his veins is just from the fever and not how Strange understands and respects things others wouldn’t.

He does not want to be friends with this man.

Again, influence does have to be grand. 

Steven shut the hell up.

Chapter Text

Not even five seconds into a new day, things are already chaotic.

Upon Bats’ request to speed the trip up, everyone had set out to leave late last night. However, Strange had commented that it would be dangerous to fly through things and get into the snowy part of the trip during the night without the sun to warm them. Instead, they were to stay one final night at the campsite, pack up in the morning, and leave when the sun was just above the tips of the trees.

Marc groans, shifting uncomfortably on the ground, sitting up against a tree. He yawns, blinking through the fog his mind had conjured up. Strange and Clea are barking things at each other but working seamlessly otherwise. The sun is nowhere to be seen, and the only thing illuminating the site is a small, crackling fire that Bats sits next to, watching chaos unfold.

He overslept.

“Don’t forget to go to the stream and grab water. We are not going to die by dehydration.” Clea snaps at Strange, pointing a finger at him before zipping up Marc’s duffle bag.

“I will, dear, be patient. We’re down one person.” Strange’s voice is gentle yet commanding. “You told me not to wake him. By your words: ‘He looks too peaceful to wake.’ ” His voice becomes a double-edged sword as it cuts into the air, full of malice. In response, Clea tosses the duffle bag to the side and huffs. It lands next to Bats, and he positions himself on it. 

Looks too peaceful? Marc grimaces. Yes, he slept well, well enough for the sickness ravaging his body, but the fact that they looked him over, said he was sleeping well and decided not to wake him was conflicting. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“Have you seen anyone sleep as peaceful in the past week? I think not.” She scoffs, tugging a blanket from the makeshift tent and folding it into a bag. “Plus, he’s as pale as me now. You waved it off as stress, but his skin tone is not as white as the ash around us. It’s more of an ivory— if anything— and if stress affects him this badly, I will put it first before making him work hard.”

Oh, G-d, he’s noticeably paler now. Why did Strange think to wave it off as stress? He’s practically burning up at the seams, and every move he makes feels sluggish and uncoordinated. He’s also fifty percent positive he can barely talk with how hoarse his voice has gotten in the past night, and this isn’t even mentioning the aches that rack through his body every few minutes. How was any of that related to stress?

“Oh, you’re already awake.” Clea’s voice, right before Marc, pulls him out of his panicked mind. She’s down to his level, crouching and holding a bowl of water and a cold, burnt fish. “Here, eat.”

Marc peers behind Clea, noting the disappearance of Strange and the Cloak. He remembers how they got tasked with getting water, but he thought that would be way later. Is it already later? He can tell the sun is finally rising, for the sky has become lighter, and the world is easier to see. How much has he missed?

Bats is still resting against the duffle bag, preparing for a long trek. He redirects his gaze to Clea and the food. He shrugs off his past insecurities as fast as they appeared and swipes the food from her hands, feasting on the contents. Food is more important than worrying about time.

However, he silently wishes he hadn’t eaten, for the crunchiness of the fish makes Marc’s throat sear with pain. He ignores it and manages to force every bite down, bit by bit. He doesn’t mind the charcoal taste, but it becomes overbearing with his muddled senses as he finishes the fish. He coughs, washing the charcoal and pain away with the water, and hands the bowl back to Clea. She tosses it inside a random bag as Marc stands, albeit wobbly and shaky. The sickness adds to the fact that he can barely stand.

Clea stares at him, her eyebrows creased with worry. Marc looks back at her blankly before shrugging it off and waving his hand at the scene around him.

“Mind telling me the operation here?” 

Strange was right. There is a lot of snow.

The four stand— well, for Marc, float because of the Cloak carrying him— next to the visible cutoff between forest and snow. Bats digs at the ground, tossing the frozen water onto himself, and rolls around happily. Everyone else wishes they could share the same sentiment.

For Marc, his entire body aches. A fierce, unbridled, nonstopping pain. It flows from his arms down to his legs. Marc drops what he’s carrying and lets the Cloak drag him to the ground, propping himself against a tree. Clea follows suit, and suddenly, he accidentally initiates a break session. Even though, in the logical part of his mind, they should be racing to get to the gateway.

Clea rummages through the bags beside her and tosses a plastic wrapper toward Marc. He catches it and inspects the golden wrapper around it.

“How did you…?” Marc trails off, untwirling the wrapper around its candy and popping it into his mouth. He hums, satisfied. A sweet, creamy caramel flavor explodes in his mouth. However, it’s not as sweet as caramel. It’s just right, like Butterscotch. The sweetness burns inside of his throat, and he forces it down with a cough. 

“I found it in under some of the wreckage around the camp. We usually have candies out for guests, so I grabbed them just in case.” Clea grabs another candy, tossing one to Strange and keeping one for herself. She puts it swiftly in her mouth and smiles. “I like the bitter ones.”

“Those are called licorice.” Strange chuckles, “I prefer chocolate, myself.”

“A basic taste,” Clea laughs, popping another licorice into her mouth. Marc’s nose scrunches up. He can smell it from where he sits.

“It is not basic.” Strange rolls his eyes, leaning against a tree. “Dark chocolate with a nice cup of coffee is one of the best things on Earth.” 

“Still…” Clea waves her hand around, grinning. “There is much more variety than just… chocolate.”

“Regardless, we should head into the snow sooner rather than later.” Strange huffs. The response elicits a booming laugh from Clea while Marc offers a slight smile to the conversation, too tired to poke fun at Strange. He would love to if he wasn’t so sick and tired that any movement worsens his headache and general pain. “The sun is high, and we should be able to make it at least half the way today if we make good time.”

Clea sighs, content with the amount of teasing. She gets up, tugs a few blankets apart, places the items in other bags, and shifts things around before wrapping herself up. She grabs a branch, which holds the items, and pulls it over her shoulders. 

The Cloak pushes Marc up and tosses his jacket and mask at him, both draped against the duffle bag that Strange carries. He wraps the dirty fabric around the bottom half of his face and pulls the jacket on before the Cloak floats back onto his shoulders. He doesn’t care about the dirt stains anymore. Everyone has given up on any semblance of cleanliness.

Marc grabs the few bags left and hikes them over his shoulders. He looks out along the snowy, barren landscape. He feels like curling up and dying in the safety of the forest. How are they going to cross this?

Bats brushes against his legs, weaving around them, finally back up from his break in the mixture of ash and snow. Marc looks down at him, locking eyes with the dog. They speak that everything will be fine, but Marc can’t hold onto the mild sense of hope inside his chest enough to believe it.

A gust of wind catches underneath his clothes, rolling along his skin. He shivers, panting heavily already. The haze coating his brain hasn’t dissipated since he woke up. He’s so tired, but he can make it to the castle. He can make it home.

He hopes.

The few trees they found as shelter looms over the four, high and towering. A fire crackles in the middle of the circle they had created, and snow is pushed to the sides carelessly. Everyone is already asleep. Strange and Clea huddle against each other, with Bats against Strange’s side, but Marc is still awake. Eyes dry and open, unblinking, looking at the sky. He’s given up trying to sleep, stirring restlessly against the cold ground, swaddled in a blanket, shivering every few seconds from the contrast between the cold air and warmth coursing through his body. 

It’s too warm. Marc’s tempted to stomp the fire out, but he knows, by doing so, nobody would bear well in the chill temperatures— except for Bats and the Cloak. If the Cloak was even sentient— Marc has no idea. 

He finally tosses the blanket off of him, giving in to temptations to get colder. He has to get away from the fire— get away from everything. 

Marc claws at the ground, dragging his body back to the snow they had pushed to the side. Managing to make it that far without waking anyone, he plants his face in the snow, stifling a groan at the cold that pricks at his skin. He sighs, relishing the chill and forcing his body onto the snow further until he’s squirming, covered head to toe in snow.

Marc stills, sitting up and brushing the snow off of him. He blinks, swiftly propelling his body back to the fire, realizing what he had done. 

Do you want to get hyperthermia? Marc shakes his head, thinking to himself. How did he think that was a good idea? 

Marc’s thoughts get disrupted when, halfway back to the fire from his sudden want to flail in the snow, he feels his stomach curl unpleasantly. He sits up from his army crawl position, grabbing his stomach and groaning. His stomach flips around uncomfortably, shooting pain through his abdomen. He can feel his mouth salivating in response to the pain.

He swears under his breath as he shifts his head toward the snow, unable to do it in a different place than right next to the campsite due to his limbs not wanting to function. 

He tilts his head down and vomits.

They didn’t find the patch of vomit. Which, all in all, Marc considered a success. He gave himself a hazy, mental pat on the back. However, he hadn’t slept either. He got cursed with aches and vomiting spells that wouldn’t allow him to sleep. So, now, he stares at the two Strange’s, watching as they pack everything up like it’s a movie. Everyone is deathly quiet.

He feels like he’s watching them all in the third person, a constant state of mild dissociation being normal now, but it’s gotten worse. 

A curl in his gut threatens his body to dry heave again, all of the food he ate yesterday being thrown up right outside of their campsite, but he manages to swallow it down and force himself not to puke before everyone.

Although, doing so would let everyone know of his situation. Marc wouldn’t mind Clea’s wrath if it meant passing out for the entirety of the day. The unbearable heat has been replaced with insufferable chills throughout his body, making him shiver under the two blankets he has wrapped himself under. There’s no middle ground, he’s found out, between the heat and cold.

A tap on his knee brings him out of his fog. Strange kneels down in front of Marc, his hands on his knees. He blearily looks up at him, confused about what’s happening. He guesses he makes some sort of noise because Strange taps his leg and, by his expression, likely repeats what he’s been saying.

“May I check your injury? I observed that you didn’t clean it last night or the night before.” Strange asks, his voice soothing. Marc knows it’s a tactic to make him say yes, for Badr has used it on him before and explained how it works, mostly on kids, which heavily offended him then, but he’s too tired to say no. He knows it’s heavily infected. 

Badr—

“Spector?” Strange taps his knee again, gaining his attention. “Your injury?”

“M’yeah,” Marc mutters, his voice rough and hoarse. He can see a flash of concern against Strange’s blank expression as he goes down, pulling up the blankets and jeans and carefully unraveling his sash from his leg.

Strange pulls back, his face showing his horror. Dried blood and puss coat the sash, which he tosses to the side and shakes his head. Marc regrets not being stubborn before Strange’s words tear him out of his head. 

“We need to get to the gateway as fast as possible.” He heaves, waving his hand for Clea. She snaps to attention, hearing the sudden horror in his voice. “Put some water in a bowl close to the fire and tear a blanket up. He needs clean bandages and something to clean this wound— By Hoggoth…”

Marc groans, trying to wiggle away from Strange’s touch, for it blooms more pain throughout his body, but he gets pinned down by the sorcerer's look of concern mixed with disgust. He stays still, heavily anticipating the worst as Clea does what Strange tells her to do as fast as possible. 

Within the sudden commotion, Bats wakes from his slumber and flops against Marc’s side, giving him some sort of comfort. He places his head against Marc’s knees, bringing his body to the side of his leg. Strange lets him, sitting across from him, legs crossed, waiting for the water to warm up. 

“How long has it been infected?” Strange inquires after a few minutes. Clea hands him a few pieces of torn blanket, and he soaks one with water and dabs it on the wound. 

“Since the beginning of Shabbos.” Marc bites his lips, trying to ignore the pain of Strange dabbing the cloth against the wound. 

“Why did you not clean the wound properly?” Strange cocks an eyebrow at him. Isn’t that the question of the century? “Everyone in our line of work knows how to clean a wound.”

“I didn’t expect the injury to heal so slowly.” Truth. He was used to healing faster than usual because of Khonshu’s influence, but without him, he had no idea what a normal healing cycle was. “With Khonshu, back at home, he’s a god of healing— medicine. Usually, my wounds don’t become infected. They heal fast and don’t have the chance— ”

Strange presses hard accidentally, and Marc sees stars. He thinks he yells because as the fog around his mind clears, Strange has pulled away, and he’s grasping the blankets covering him tightly, hard enough for it to hurt. Marc takes a few seconds, gasping for breath. Then, he nods for Strange to continue. 

As the sorcerer continues, Clea places the warmed water next to him. He whispers a thank you before turning back to cleaning the wound.

“Even so, the wound has been infected for days. You could’ve told someone.” 

“You have wanted nothing to do with me since I’ve shown up. You have made that crystal clear.” Marc laughs, albeit a bit hysterically. He’s fed up, tired, and wants to go home. “I thought this wouldn’t take goddamn weeks. So, I apologize. I assumed wrong in thinking that my extension to Khonshu wouldn’t work when this dimension has two fucking moons. ”

Speaking the last part, he grits his teeth, feeling his stomach curl as Strange pours the water on his wound. The water feels great, but he can feel bile crawling up his throat. G-d, he wants to die.

However, unlike last time, he can’t stop this sudden crawl up his throat, and he’s quickly swatting Bats away and wiggling away from Strange as best as possible. Before the Cloak can tug him back, he discharges the bile clogged in his throat. Clea gags in disgust, having never seen that before, and Strange frowns. The Cloak brings him back when he’s done coughing and brings a piece of a ripped blanket to clean his face.

“Thank you for not vomiting on yourself,” Strange sighs, going back to cleaning the wound, exasperated. “A warning would’ve been nice.”

Marc hums, the world too hazy to formulate a coherent response. The warm water feels like a blessing, zoning out to the warmth and comfort surrounding him. The Cloak, now wrapped tightly around his shoulders, acts like a weighted blanket, and Marc can’t claw his way back into consciousness as he closes his eyes and lets his mind float.

The day is a hazy mess of floating in and out of consciousness. Marc thinks he’s awake but honestly doesn’t know. Everything is blended, all together, in one form. The pain and warmth mix to create a concoction of foggy fuzziness and general discomfort.

“Is he out again?”

“He seems to be.”

Marc tries to open his eyes, hearing the faint conversation end. Was he awake? When did that happen? 

Marc tries to push his eyelids open, but they’re like boulders, completely unmovable. He groans and shifts around, trying to figure out his bearings, managing to move his arm around, but a hand intertwines with his and rubs small, soothing circles into his palm that drag him further into his mind. 

“Is a human supposed to do that?” 

The circles stop after a while, and Marc thinks he makes a noise, but it’s high-pitched and sounds like it shouldn’t come from a human. 

“He’s acting like the cat that came to the sanctum a few days ago. Would it be accurate to compare him to an animal like that?”

He shoves those thoughts away and tries to open his eyes again, giving up on moving any other facet of his body. His face feels wet, but he shrugs it off in his fight to get his eyes to open.

Marc hears a faint hum and what sounds like reassurances said— not from Clea, the voice is too masculine— to him before being tugged under again, his mind aching yet floating on thick water again. He feels like he’s drowning, forced under the syrupy substance. He squirms around, dragging his face out of the water and, finally, opening his eyes.

He’s on the ground. The world feels swirly and uncoordinated. The ache in his stomach is still there, and his body feels like an ice cube. A hand comes up to his face, holding something. He squints his eyes, eyeing the thing suspiciously. 

A racket of laughter rings out from where the hand is coming from. A body forms behind the offering— Clea, he resisters— and she’s speaking?  

“It’s snowing,” Strange, he assumes through his haze, squats beside Clea. “We need to seek shelter. Now.”

The hand retracts, and Clea nods, getting up. He tries to do something, try to make them explain what’s going on, but he’s too tired. He sighs as the Cloak drags him up into the air, carting him around beside the group as he lapses back under the water in his mind, being dragged down to the depths and restlessly falling asleep.

Marc opens his eyes.

The four are in a cavern, hiding from the storm outside. It’s loud, the wind whipping itself and the snow around frantically. The wind snaps once, twice, and Marc’s already given up on falling back asleep. His brain is too attentive to the storm bellowing outside, and it’s too warm inside, a trend he figures with his body temperature. 

Objectively, having slept all day, Marc shouldn’t feel tired, but he does. His stomach aches from not eating all day— he thinks he hasn’t eaten all day— and his bones hurt from trying to cure the sickness and heal the wound all in one go. 

Marc groans, feeling his stomach rumble. He needs food and fast, or he’ll keel over and die. It’s a hyperbole, but he wouldn’t put it past himself. 

Marc locates the mass of tossed to the side bags; army crawls over to it— his legs are too tired to work— and unzips his duffle bag. He rummages through the duffle, grabbing a few vegetables and feasting. Every bite is too big, sending pain crawling through his body, but it doesn’t matter. Every bite feels like a godsend and a blessing from G-d himself. 

He pauses, realizing that he probably shouldn’t eat any more than what he has, rationing, and zips the bag back up, shuffling to where he woke up with the remaining food. 

Marc scans the room, his eyes falling on the three cuddled close together. He feels like he’s intruding, but he can’t stop looking. 

Clea’s body curls around Strange, sleeping peacefully around her husband. Her head lays against his chest, and small puffs of air curl the end of a blanket that wraps around her. Strange is underneath her, an arm protectively curled around his wife. He has his head nestled against her head, nose buried between curls of hair. Bats lays against Strange’s side, pinning his free arm down.

It’s oddly soft. Something that makes Marc’s heart melt, and his head turns away from the sight because he can’t bear to see them like that. It’s so vulnerable , and it makes his face flush. The three aren’t vulnerable people, but they are. That’s what makes them so unusual to Marc. They are the middle ground, where they aren’t afraid to be one or the other. 

They love each other. They’ll risk their lives for one another. They are everything to themselves, and that’s all that matters to them. Love.  

Circles rubbed in his palm and silent reassurances that everything will be okay. 

Marc turns back, frowning. He blames the sickness for making himself so emotional, but he knows that’s inaccurate. However, he watches Strange’s form convulse, teeth grinding against each other, and all previous thoughts get thrown out of the window. 

Either he’s having a nightmare, or he’s cold, but Marc doesn’t care. All thoughts set themselves on one plan: Make Strange stop shivering. A scheme is already formed in his mind as Marc shoves the Cloak off his shoulders, pulls his jacket off, and slides up to Strange. 

He has no idea what he’s doing, but it feels instinctual as he gently lifts Clea’s head and tucks the jacket over Strange. He carefully places Clea’s head back down and moves away, but he keeps his eyes on the two, observing through half-lidded eyes. The world feels much less warm without the jacket, which is more comforting, and he can feel exhaustion nip at his mind as he flops back down to where the Cloak is.

Marc wants to be in their circle. He wants to be friends with Strange. Marc sees the other side of the man right in front of him. How not so different he is from everyone else. So, why can’t he just wave his hand and be friends? Magic his way into this?

Why are emotions so hard? He grumbles, flipping on his side, away from the two. He stares at the cavern walls, his mind making his thoughts as loud as the wind whipping around outside. He sighs, covering his ears, curling up, and closing his eyes.

Marc feels like death.

No, that’s an understatement. Yesterday was death. Today? Today is Hell. He can barely move his limbs. Every attempt is more futile than the last, and eventually, he gives up, managing to make noises to alert someone— anyone. The noises coming from him sound pitiful, and he’s pretty sure he can hear stifled laughing around him, but Marc can’t move his body, and he needs to know if anyone is there.

He doesn’t want to rot alone in a cave. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—

The feeling of a hand on his face interrupts his internal panic. It presses softly against his forehead and rubs its thumb against his head, making circles. He frowns, dragging his arms up to grab at the body against him. However, before he can get far, his hand gets pulled down by an outside force of another hand, and that one gets taken over with soothing motions being pressed down into the skin as well. 

Marc sighs, giving up— he’s done lots of that recently — and letting his mind float. He forgets any internal panic, being soothed by the person he knows is there, and relaxes.

Moon— Marc is burning up.

She had noticed him squirming under the mass pile of blankets they had thrown him under after waking up, seeing him with nothing, shivering in the cold, while the fire had gone out. Stephen said he had a few colorful words for Marc when he woke up, but his anger quickly dissipated as he went to clean his wound, and Clea started the fire. 

She looks up from where she’s invaded Marc’s space to the outside. Snow is pelting the ground at a fast rate. It’s a waiting game now. A game that Clea is horrified that she has to play.

Clea turns to her husband, who sits beside the fire, warming himself up. He still has Marc’s jacket on, tightly wrapped around himself. It’s tight on him, with his robes underneath, but he doesn’t care. His mind is somewhere else, staring at the fire blankly.

“Stephen,” Clea’s smart enough to figure out when it’s right to pull him out of his head, but she struggles to figure out what’s wrong. It’s obvious he’s distraught about the situation. His horror throughout yesterday said enough, but the specifics are what she has always had a tough time with. Stephen's head perks up from looking at the flames, his lips pursed. “What is on your mind?”

Stephen hums. He folds his hands underneath his head and leans on them. “I feel like I could’ve prevented this.” He shrugs, sighing and turning away. “I know it’s illogical, but I’m a doctor. I could’ve pointed out the signs and looked further into it before waving it off as stress. No human on Earth does this because of stress .” He covers his face with his hands, lets out a long sigh, and recomposes himself.

“I avoided him for days when he needed a doctor the most. I understand he would be in this spot anyways, but the thought that I was not there irks me.” Stephen fidgets with the corners of the jacket. “I don’t see the man as just a co-worker. More or less a friend, if he would be fine with it. Is that nonsensical of me?”

Clea shakes her head, shifting her body to be more comfortable underneath Marc’s head. She feels him move to the side, clawing at Clea’s leg when she stops the movement for a brief second. She huffs out a laugh, continuing to rub circles against the palm of his hand.

“It’s not illogical to feel that way. You are a doctor, after all. Regardless, you shouldn’t blame yourself. He did try to hide it from us. It’s a miracle that he gave up. Even I feel a sense of guilt. I worry that I did something to scare him away.” Clea sighs, bringing her hand on his forehead down to his back. She keeps her hand stationary there, making sure Marc stays calm. “However, wanting to be more than respected but liked as a friend is not nonsense.”

“I feel like it is nonsense.” Stephen groans, “I know what I’m saying is nonsense, but he doesn’t enjoy my company. Even when I try to tend to him, it’s like wrangling a feral cat with rabies.” He exclaims, rubbing his temples.

“I told you that he acts like a cat sometimes.” Clea grins when Stephen smiles, chuckling. “He is like a cat with rabies, but remember, you have to be soft, yet not condescending, to those cats for them to trust you. You understand them and let them see you for who you are.” 

Stephen nods, eyebrows furrowing. “I know. I’ve been trying over the past few days.”

“I know that too. I’ve seen it, and I thank you for giving Marc a second chance. However, it’s going to take more than a few days.” Clea responds. 

Marc shuffles around as she speaks, and her heart drops. Did she accidentally wake him up? Stephen eyeballs him as well, thinking the same. Marc stops moving, now cradled around Clea’s leg, clutching it like a lifeline. She sighs a breath of relief and turns to Stephen, gesturing to what he’s doing. 

“See? Not so bad,” Clea whispers. “You just have to be careful and give him time. That’s all.”

Stephen hums, nodding his head. Clea smiles at the sight. It looks like he’s taking mental notes, which to her is hilarious. She doesn’t understand why humans have to complicate things as simple as emotions. If you love someone, love them. If you hate someone, hate them. It’s as simple as that to Clea, and she makes it work. 

Clea rakes her hand through Marc’s hair, sighing deeply. She hopes that Marc will stay asleep for most of the day. He needs it. She also doesn’t want to deal with his waking self. Actually, she mostly doesn’t want to deal with him while he’s awake and sick. Yesterday was a train wreck that she never wants to endure again.

So, replacing the concern and horror of yesterday, she’ll replace it with gentle care and love for the being hugging her leg, clinging onto her like, if he doesn’t, he’ll float away and get lost forever. She’ll take care of him because, and yes, she’s in debt, but he’s her friend, and that’s what friends do. They love each other. Not as deeply as those in love, like her and Stephen, but there’s still a connection. A line pairing everyone together. A pure, instinctual emotion: Love.

She waves Bats over, knowing that Marc finds comfort in the dog, and relaxes. She lays down, keeping her hands on Marc. Bats flops onto her, lapping at Marc’s head, before pushing himself against Marc’s curled-up body. Soon after, Stephen joins, propping Clea’s head up in his lap. He kisses her forehead and connects his with hers. 

She smiles, radiating pure, joyful glee. Stephen reciprocates it, laughing in the process. His laugh is a bit hysteric, mixing in with stress and exhaustion, but it’s genuine, and Clea loves it. She loves everything from how calm Marc is to how Stephen looks at her with admiration and love. Clea knows he’s only here, curled up near everyone because of her, but it’s okay. She’ll let him warm up. Clea will wait. She would do anything for him— her husband.

She would do anything for the people piled around her, huddled like penguins. Their hearts beat the same rhythm, echoing in a harmonic symphony of acceptance and fondness. She loves them all. She’ll give her love to all of them until her dying breath. A rhythmic mantra of I love you, I love you, I love you.  

And she does love them, from the moon and back.

Clea has decided to buy multiple books on Earth's diseases and biology, specifically human anatomy. She knows it's almost the same as hers, but certain things are different. Did you know humans don’t use their Auricular muscles? Or how they don’t use over three hundred genomes just for smelling? While other mammals do? She didn’t. 

However, Stephen knows everything. He had been rambling for hours about topics that made her realize she barely knew anything about Earth. It was adorable seeing Stephen so passionate about something she was clueless about. 

Stephen sits beside Clea, who sits up with Marc’s head on her lap. She had managed to wrangle Marc from cradling around her leg to his head propped up on her lap with difficulty, but he had relented an hour ago and gave up. She thanked the Vishanti and moved so she could feel her legs again, which allowed Stephen to shuffle away and make dinner. 

He’s staring at a bowl of mushy greens thrown together for Marc, boiled to death in a bowl of water. Bats is cradled in Marc’s arms, snoring softly. Clea can’t look too hard at the two, or she’ll melt into a puddle like before. 

Instead, she directs her attention to her husband, cutting into his rant about how hernias— whatever those are— are directly related to human ancestry to sharks. 

“Why do you have to boil his food to death? It’s practically mush.” Clea’s nose scrunches up as Stephen takes the mush and pushes it toward her. 

“Unlike Faltines, human immune systems are very delicate. Sore throats are common when humans are sick. It can hurt to swallow hard, cold food.” Stephen explains and nudges the bowl closer to her. She grabs the bowl and pokes Marc’s head.

“You’re going to tell me that humans can get sick by a simple cat scratch next.” Clea laughs, shaking her head. Her laughter slowly fades as Stephen doesn’t join her, face stagnant. “You’re joking.”

“Cat scratch fever is a real sickness.” Stephen sighs, “I know, it sounds ridiculous. However, it can be very harmful to humans.”

“That is ridiculous. By Hoggoth , your kind is far more fragile than I thought! I imagined it was only bones that could break easily.” Clea huffs, placing the bowl on the ground and shaking Marc forcefully. He doesn’t stir, and she does it again. Bats’ eyes open as the shaking continues, and he tries to wiggle out of Marc’s clutches. “But, no. Your kind is so delicate.”

“You pointed that out to me a few days ago, dear. Don’t you remember your whole speech about Spector?” Stephen cocks an eyebrow at her as Marc shifts his head to bury it against the blanket wrapped around her legs. She rolls her eyes and maneuvers him to face up, pinning him with a hand on his shoulder. Being freed by the shift in position, Bats raises himself from the ground and flops beside Stephen, rolling around on the dusty floor before settling.

“That was emotional. I did not know physically as well.” Clea sighs, mildly unsettled. 

Marc squirms around, feeling the loss of Bats’ weight beside him. She pats his shoulder, and he brings a hand to touch hers. He grabs it, opens his eyes slightly, and looks at it wordlessly.

“Clea?” Marc croaks, lowering her hand down to his chest. His voice sounds awful. She holds back from wincing at the sound and smiles down at him. Stephen grabs an extra bowl, fills it with water, and places it around the fire. She’s guessing for him to drink. 

“Can you sit up to eat?” Clea says as gently as possible. She’s taking this slow and steady, trying not to sound too condescending but not too concerned for his health.

She hears a sigh of relief come from Stephen as Marc nods, shifting against Clea’s side. She allows him to balance his weight on her as he gets situated, rubbing exhaustion out from his eyes. Clea grabs the bowl beside her and hands it to him. He slowly takes it from her, bringing it to his lips, and eats. 

Clea doesn’t want to imagine the pain he’s experiencing from the wincing she sees. She manages to ignore them and power through as he consumes the rest of the food in the bowl. 

Marc brings the bowl down from his face, all the contents gone. She can see how zoned out he is from the world, his eyes being glassy and tired. His skin is white, and his jawline is more defined. It’s not enough to be worrying— his cheeks not being as puffy as a healthy human being’s should— but enough to be a noticeable difference. 

Marc yawns and shuts his mouth quickly, wincing in pain. He lowers himself back onto Clea’s lap, shifting around and getting comfortable again. He shivers, trying to curl his body into a fetal position. 

Clea sighs, moving Marc from her side to her lap once more. She shifts her legs around the man, placing his head on her thigh and a hand on his head. Clea curls her fingers in his hair, playing around with the locks. They’re not as straight as she thought— they’re a bit curly.

“Rest, Moon Knight,” Clea states, whispering. “We’re not leaving you.”

Stephen moves himself beside Clea, abandoning the water as he watches Marc collapse back onto her. Bats follows suit, curling back around her legs. Her husband places a hand on Marc’s, and she swears the Cloak, still used as a blanket over him, tightens around him. 

“Once the storm clears, we have a long day ahead of us.” Stephen pats his hand, pulling it back as fast as he put it there. “Sleep well.” He says this as quickly as possible, shifting away from the three as his face reddens.

Clea chuckles at her husband, pulling him back to her side. She pats his back, going to praise his attempt at saying something nice before Marc speaks.

“My name is Marc,” he mumbles into the blanket wrapped around Clea’s legs, eyebrows furrowing. Clea puts the dots together that he’s probably in such a daze he doesn’t realize it’s not only her near him. “Spector. Marc Spector. ” He groans, going back to cradling her leg. 

“It’s good to meet you, Marc Spector.” Clea smiles, trailing her hand behind his ear and tracing his hairline. She knew this information, Stephen told her, but knowing he had the courage and was comfortable enough to reveal who he was to her made butterflies swarm inside her stomach again. “You have a wonderful name.”

Marc hums, taking a deep breath. She does the same, leaning her head against Stephen’s shoulder. She could die here, and she would be fully content. With Stephen working the courage to slowly warm up to Marc and Marc doing the same to everyone else, it made her happy seeing how hard they were trying rather than not.

“You did well,” Clea praises Stephen, interlocking her free hand with his. “A bit awkward and clunky, but your attempt is very appreciated.”

Stephen smiles and hums, tilting his head against Clea’s. 

“Thank you. ”

Warmth. It’s all Marc can feel. It’s better than feeling pain course through your body all day, but it’s the same feeling of curling around Greer once William is asleep. Fewer small touches make his heart beat out of his chest and make him think of getting on one knee right then and there, but it feels so similar to the feeling that floods his system around her: A mixture of calmness and love. It’s so warm around his cold shell of a body.

However, not all good things can last, and as the last wave of warmth flows over his body— well, specifically his leg for some reason. He can’t fit the dots to why— he’s snatched out of it as quickly as it came. He tries to grab it, but something swats his hands away, binds them to his sides, and he’s floating. Again.

It’s not a mental feeling. Actually, Marc feels the best compared to the past few days, but he can’t touch the ground. He can’t do anything. He opens his eyes, watching his legs swing above the cold, white snow. The Cloak is wrapped around his body, making him look like a worm hanging in the air.

His jacket is gone.

“Evolution is quite simple, Clea.” Marc can hear Strange’s laughter, but he can’t see them. The Cloak has wrapped the sides of his head. He sighs, closing his eyes in defeat.

“No, no . It is not Stephen Strange. You are telling me that humans, who are mammals, came from fish and reptiles. Yet, they share no commonalities in appearance.” Marc knows Clea is glaring at Strange as if he’ll die at her hands. The thought almost makes him laugh. 

“The Earth has been alive for billions of years. Change is bound to occur, dear. Fish form wrists to survive out of the ocean—”

“Fish can’t breathe out of the water! I have tried to care for one before, and I know how they work.”

“Yes, they cannot breathe out of water because those fish did not evolve to live out of water. It is only a select few fish that did.” Strange explains, trying to reason with a frantic Clea. Marc knows it’ll not go well, but he wishes he could see the exchange at least. It would be amusing.

“There were no mammals on the planet yet. It was a fish-eat-fish world, so either you got with the program of growing bigger or more protected, or you died by not doing anything.” Marc dishes out context, grimacing at the sound of his voice. It’s hoarse and squeaky, but at least he can talk without his head feeling like it’s chopped off. The Cloak unravels around him, setting on his shoulders and allowing him to see the group.

The Tiktaalik, Marc. A small voice, Commander, he realizes, supplies. He hasn’t heard Commander in a while. The realization almost takes all of the breath in his lungs away. He sounds so happy to explain something he loves. It was the first fish to have wrists. It could do push-ups since it needed to raise itself in mudflats.

“The first fish to have wrists were the Tiktaalik. To survive out of the ocean, they had to raise themselves onto mudflats, so their bodies adapted to have wrists.” Marc adds on. He holds back a grin from the shocked to downright baffled expressions he had garnered.

“You two really came from fish?” Clea shakes her head, surprised. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to know that Strange is trying to teach you evolution, and none of it is sticking.” He shoots back, earning a chuckle from Strange. The sound makes his hands fuzzy. He has no idea where they are, but he’ll go with the flow. He has the energy to, at least.

Marc also notices that Strange is wearing his jacket. The fuzziness in his hands spreads to his limbs as a wave of warmth melts everything in his chest.

“I don’t understand! Fish are fish. Reptiles are reptiles. They can’t— they cannot merge to make a non-egg-bearing species whose immune systems are so fragile that I could touch you, and you’d succumb to a coma!” Clea waves her hands around, frantic and confused. Marc smirks, looking at Strange with an amused expression. He looks away, shaking his head.

Does she know that the three bones in our inner ear came from the jaws of reptiles and sharks? Commander adds. Marc can feel the mischievous look on his face, and he swallows the laugh bubbling up in his throat.

Better question: How do you know this? 

Commander doesn’t respond, and Marc’s eyebrows furrow in worry. He calls out his name again, only to get a faint, whispered response.

Midnight shopping spree for books about Earth.

That is where all of those came from, Marc sighs, zoning back into the conversation with Strange and Clea. He knows that Commander is a nerd about space— Hell, he lives on the moon— but Marc never looked at the other side of it: He has no idea what Earth is about.

Do you have any other facts?

Explain evolution to her like Russian Nesting Dolls! That’s how a book described it. Commander exclaims like he’s surfing through his collected knowledge of the world and found gold. 

Thankfully, the conversation hasn’t continued to be something else, so Marc butts in. “Think of it like a set of Russian Nesting Dolls. There is one big doll, and inside it are tinier dolls that fit into one another until there is none left. That is evolution. Each animal fits into one another, and in the end, every single animal in the past is under the shell of the big doll.” 

The scene goes quiet, Clea pondering for a few minutes before realization spreads across her face. She brings her hands to her lips, making a finger gun with them while her eyebrows furrow. As she does this, they finish climbing a hill, and tall towers make up the horizon. They’re closer than Marc thought. It’s almost like he can touch the hard, solid rock that makes them. They twirl together, some collapsed, some upright, or looking pristine. He can see no snow up ahead. Only hard, white rock. 

“So, other animals make you up.” Clea proclaims slowly. “You are not original.”

“That’s evolution.” Strange nods, smiling. “We are far from original.”

“I am still confused, but look at that view .” Clea gasps, breath taken away at the sight of the large castle in the middle of the long, windy towers. The group stills, looking over the view. Strange wraps an arm around Clea’s waist, the Cloak brings Marc’s shoulder to touch Clea’s, and Bats weaves between their legs. It’s a silent moment, filled to the brim with relief of ending this adventure. Marc feels content, and he lets himself smile.

They’re this close. What’s going to stop them?

The four walk— well, two of them float down, Marc and Bats— in unison down the hill. Silence is all they can hear, and as they reach the bottom, the silence gets broken by Clea, who laughs in relief. She brings everyone closer together, an arm wrapped around both men and a gesture for Bats to come closer. She leans her head in the middle, and the three follow suit to the best of their ability.

“Alright, boys. We’re getting through this, opening the gateway, and what’ll stop us?” Clea grins, cheeks red from the cold. 

“Clea.” Strange laughs. “Nothing, dear.” 

“I can’t hear you! Come on, louder!” Clea raises her voice. Marc thinks this is a reaction from the stress and relief flooding everyone’s system. However, he’s not sure, but whatever it is, he has never seen this side of Clea. She’s always loud and proud, but pep talks? She’s usually gentle and not sports-like. He feels like he’s only seen this in Football games. 

Before the group can yell a response back, an ear-piercing roar echoes against the towers behind them. Marc peers over Clea’s shoulder, watching as an orange beast bares its teeth, growls, and starts running straight at them.

Chapter Text

It happens in a flash.

Adrenaline shoots through Marc’s body as Strange shoves everyone to the side, away from the lunging beast. He doesn’t know where he’s going, except that he’s following Clea and Strange, and they’re sprinting into the kingdom. They ditch the bags they’ve been carrying as they breach the border.

In their mad dash, Marc makes the mistake of looking behind them. The beast’s fur is bristled, digging into the bags and sniffing them. Realization dawns across its face, its features scrunching up in unbridled anger. 

As the beast is about to turn around, Marc gets tugged to the side, and the four slot themselves into a house. Strange takes no time hustling them to the corner of the house, bringing them closer to a window for easy escape. 

The house is a mixture of rock and machinery. Where the foundation is cracked, old, ash-covered wires slot themselves, keeping the building from collapsing. Marc could’ve sworn every building was rock, maybe marble, but now? He’s surprised a beast, like the one outside, could have made anything machine-like.

“From here, if we keep going right, we should be able to make it to the gateway.” Strange whispers, crouching down. He places a hand on Bats’ head, soothing the worried specter.

“How are we going to avoid the beast?” Clea asks, concern draped over her face. “I did not expect to encounter one so soon.”

“The one outside seems more feral than the beasts I’ve heard of in this dimension,” Strange hums. Marc looks out the window, peering across the view as he continues to speak. “If we make a run for the gateway, we should be able to outrun the beast. As an alternative, it seems too big to get through the houses. We could travel through them instead.”

“This is the beast's homeworld. You know it doesn’t care to destroy a few measly houses. They destroyed the whole world for Hoggoth's sake.” Clea snaps back, copying Strange’s whisper. “We’re lucky this one is more feral than the rest. It’s likely to be uncoordinated.”

“And not use its power,” Strange tacks on. Marc’s uneasiness increases tenfold. 

Clea nods, humming in acknowledgment. Marc and Bats lock eyes, both very confused. None of them said anything about rampaging beasts and superpowers during this trip. Yes, they mentioned the beasts, Marc remembers, but he can already feel the fog coming back and wrapping around his mind, making his memories fuzzy. Did they mention any of this before?

“And not use its power,” Clea repeats. She stands, swinging her leg over the window cill, extending a hand to her husband. “Shall we?” 

Strange smiles, gets up, takes his wife’s hand, and steps outside. The Cloak tugs Marc off the ground, and the four are back at it, running for their lives, weaving in and out of machine-covered rock houses.

Surprisingly, the journey to the gateway is ultimately uneventful. The four cautiously hide behind walls and surfaces like something is there, waiting to get jumped, but nothing comes of it. It’s a tense hour of traversing the rocky and unstable land until Strange lifts his arm, signaling them to stop. 

In front of them is a rock wall. Marc doesn’t see anything of it, except what he does see is that everyone is backed into a corner, surrounded by crumbling houses that lead to nowhere. Yes, paranoia has enveloped him, and his body has never been this tense before, but it’s something he sees. It’s something that Clea sees as well as she places a hand on Strange’s shoulder.

“Are you positive the gateway is here?” Clea whispers, leaning closer to him. “If this is not the place, we have nowhere else to go, dear.”

“I’m sure this is the place.” Strange places his hand on the wall and closes his eyes. A beat passes before he speaks again, his eyebrows furrowed. “I am… positive this is the place.” He heaves, opening his eyes. He scans around the wall, frantic and confused. A pit grows at a steady rate in Marc’s stomach.

His fear was correct.

“We did this all for nothing .” Strange whispers. Marc watches as his face turns from confusion to horror in seconds. “We cannot open the gateway from the inside. I cannot—” 

His breathing is picking up pace, requiring Clea to intervene and push him toward a house. The four quickly slide into the small space and sit in a corner. It’s cramped, but they make it worthwhile as Bats curls around Strange, and Clea does the same. 

Unexpectedly, the Cloak tugs Marc down to the three, sliding him in front of Clea. She wraps one arm around Marc and the other around Strange. His breathing is still quick, bordering on hyperventilating, but he has the three to ground him, bring him back from his mind, and show him that everything will be okay.

Strange takes a deep breath, shuddering. “I led you all to a death trap. We cannot open the gateway from the inside. Magic doesn’t work here. I should have known.” Another heaved breath. “Furthermore, we do not have the resources to escape this land and survive.” Strange manages to string together a sentence. He pauses a few times to regain his bearings, but once he says it, the gravity of the situation sets in.

They are going to die here.

No, Marc frowns. No one is dying here. Not now, not ever. 

Marc tosses Clea’s arm off of him, wiggling in front of Strange. His crossed legs touch Strange’s, and he places his hands on the sorcerer’s knees. He grabs Bats, drags him into Strange’s lap, and stares longingly into his dark, grey eyes.

“No one is going to die here,” Marc states. His voice is becoming more hoarse, but he shoves it off and pushes through. “We have been away from Earth for almost two weeks. You are the Avenger's number one friend, and I’m on their watchlist. Think of it. It’s only a matter of time before they find us.”

“We don’t have time,” Strange spits out, groaning. “We’re going to die before they find us. How are you not connecting the dots in your mind?”

“How are you not connecting the dots that this isn’t you ? The Stephen—” The word ‘Stephen’ rolls off Marc’s tongue unnaturally; he cringes and continues. “The Strange I know of constantly thinks out of the box. There is never a time when he’s inside of the box. That is what is so fascinating about him. He gets anyone who asks for help out of anything. He has flair, cockiness, and Hell: He wouldn’t back down because of a lack of resources and an oversized orange bear.

“Even if everything has gone to shit, there’s always Stephen Strange to get you back to your feet.” Marc beams. He’s had all of this repressed up for so long, and now it’s spewing out of him like a waterfall. “So, will we continue to sit here and mope, or will we think of something else?”

Yes, he’s putting Sterman’s practices into play. It’s better to act than to brood in a corner and let everything burn. He’s had a few sessions surrounding that topic. Wallowing does nothing to improve the situation at hand.

Strange’s eyes light up. It’s like a newly kindled fire is burning violently inside, whipping around and engulfing Strange’s emotions: A sudden urge to continue onward. He huffs, calming his nerves and looking at Marc.

“Our first course of action would be to regather our things and head out of here. Our best chance at survival is in the forest.” Strange nods, sliding Bats off of him. “We should head out before the oversized orange bear alerts every other beast about our existence.”

Wait. There’s more of those things?

The Cloak tugs Marc back, and suddenly, everyone is clamoring onto their feet, ready to take off. He doesn’t get to ask his question before they rush out of the door, ready to speed walk down the long, rocky alleyway before stopping abruptly at the sight before them.

The orange beast glares at them from the beginning of the pathway. It’s fur is spiked up, anger coursing through it’s veins. Once again, it lets out an earth-shattering roar and runs toward them.

However, they’re prepared. Instead of rushing off uncoordinated, they’ve perceived this beast's attack patterns. They know what is going to happen if they stand there.

See, run, swipe, kill.

“Split up!” Clea calls out, rushing off to the other side of the alley with Bats. Strange nods, tugging Marc along with him. He’s about to protest, but he watches as the beast turns its attention, mid-run, to Clea instead of them. He hears Strange curse under his breath as they reach the end of the alleyway.

“Stephen, go! I’ll be okay!” Clea yells, ducking into a house as the beast swipes at her. Bats barks at the beast, taking a hit, but the paw phases through him. The two have a growling match as Clea climbs up and across the house, disappearing over the roof. 

Strange heads away from the battle, bringing Marc and the Cloak along. They both trust Clea and her ability to keep herself alive. She’s cunning and powerful. She’ll be okay.

She’ll be okay.

It’s been hours. None of them have seen Clea or Bats. Additionally, he feels a nagging at the back of his mind to go somewhere else but here. A part of him wants to go wherever this feeling brings him, but he pushes it off. It’s not only his life at stake, so he’s been managing to wrangle Strange into going as far away from the feeling as possible. It’s been working so far.

However, they’ve found a long, narrow hall. There seems to be no end to it. Marc looks at Strange; he looks at Marc. Neither wants to go inside, but where will they go instead? Back to where the orange beast is? That thought sets uneasily inside of Marc’s already churning stomach. 

Marc pushes the fear away and nods at the sorcerer next to him. He sighs and steps forward, bringing Marc along with him.

The two fall into a tense silence as they creep toward the end of the tunnel. A white dot manifests, and a small part of Marc rejoices. He hadn’t just led them to a dead end, thank G-d. 

Regardless, it seems like the dot isn’t getting any bigger, even as they continue forward, and Marc has to break the silence. It’s too tense.

“Is the Cloak sentient?” He asks, whispering, of course. They’ve determined that Clea’s pumped attitude alerted the beast, which was sad. He enjoyed the excitement she was illuminating.

“Excuse me?” Strange chuckles, confused. 

“Is the Cloak sentient?” Marc repeats, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been wondering about it for days.”

“The Cloak is not sentient.” Strange shakes his head. “When the Ancient One, my mentor, gifted it to me, we were embedded with a mental link between each other. I control the Cloak. The Cloak does not have a mind of its own.” Marc feels like Strange is smiling smugly, but he can’t see in the pitch black that envelopes them. He feels like he’s missing something.

He opens his mouth to ask another question, but realization hits him like a truck. Marc zips his mouth and fast. 

His heart rate accelerates as realization dawns upon him. The comfort, the teasing— everything that the Cloak did was Strange in disguise. Hell, the Cloak was a semblance of comfort to him for the whole trip. Knowing that Strange was the one doing the actions made his heart race. 

Thank goodness the hall is pitch black. If not for the darkness, Strange would see a red-faced Marc Spector, and he does not want that. 

Goddamnit— shit— Marc curses, holding his breath. In headspace, he can faintly hear people die of laughter at the realization, but he ignores it.

What he doesn’t ignore is the pulsating he’s been trying to avoid, drawing closer.

“Is something wrong?” Strange asks, and Marc’s heart drops. He internally screams as he spirals into a coughing fit— a great way to begin a heartfelt conversation that Strange isn’t going to reciprocate. The sorcerer hates him. He’s probably only been comforting him for pity.

However, that doesn’t stop him from asking what he wants to know— what he has needed to know for a long time— a long time being two weeks, but whatever. It’s felt like years to him.

“Do you still hate me?” Marc asks, and it sounds pitiful. His voice adds an extra flair of being on the verge of another coughing fit and death. 

The sorcerer mulls it over. He can hear the cogs turning in his mind. It makes Marc’s heart strain in anticipation and sorrow. He knew he was going to get a yes. They’re coworkers, and that’s what they’ll forever be—

“Not particularly.” Strange shrugs it off like he hasn’t dropped a bombshell of a response. Marc gawks, his response continuously repeating like a broken record player in his head.

Holy shit.

“Spector, you are a man based heavily on emotions and little facts. Instead, Steven does the facts for you.” Strange’s voice sounds like he’s glaring at him. “I hope you see how little I despise you over what I’ve done for you over the past week, and we let bygones be bygones.”

“I see the Cloak, but you’re a doctor, and I’m just a patient.” Marc blinks. “Right? ”

Strange laughs at him. He repeats what Marc said between laughs. Marc has never heard him like this. 

After a moment, Strange’s laughter dies off as he pats him on the back and clears his throat. 

“You’re more than a patient. You’re a friend. We— me, Clea, and Bats— have tried to get you to better health as best— and fast— as possible because we care for you. There is no hidden, deep meaning behind what I’ve said. You are a friend, Spector. To me and everyone else .” The white dot has made itself visible as a room. It pours light onto Strange’s face as they step into the room, finishing the conversation with a smile and snapping into action.

You are a friend, Spector. To me and everyone else

He could start bawling right now, but he manages to keep the pit in his throat down and observe what’s around them. 

They’re in an open room with a hole in the center. Down the hole are spiraling stairs, and Marc swears he can hear faint screams from below, but he ignores them. Machinery lines the walls, each end of the machine pointing itself toward the hole. The ceiling is encased in glass, allowing light to shine through. All in all, it’s a pretty solid room. It doesn’t look to the point of collapse, but there is no way forward except for down.

Marc gazes at the abyss, stomach twisting. He is putting his foot down at going down there.

“There are bones,” Strange comments. Marc shoots his head up, looking at the sorcerer, now crouched beside what looks to be a pile of bones. He picks one up, examines it, and places it back down. “Someone besides us has been here.”

A roar comes from inside the hall. Marc and Strange freeze, looking at each other with expressions that both read: Oh shit.  

Once again, it happens quickly. One second, Marc is standing, and another, he’s on the ground, pinned under a green, human-like hand, where he’s pretty sure that the beast is only bones and skin. He writhes under its grasp, closing his eyes to not look at the green skin that melts off its form. Its face is like a skull, with bright yellow eyes, and its only good attribute is its long, dark green hair that he’s pretty sure is melting off along with his skin.

Marc bites down on one of the beast's fingers as Strange chucks a bone at it. The combined, stinging pain makes the beast relent on its crushing grip on Marc, and the Cloak sweeps him out from underneath it. He floats next to Strange, both of them cornered before the beast. 

The beast recovers quickly, redirecting its pain and anger toward the two. Like the orange beast, it swipes at them, and they narrowly dodge it. Strange goes toward the hole, and Marc goes the opposite way. 

Before Marc can say or do anything, the beast takes where Strange is as its cue to roar again, disorienting the two with how loud it is. It tries to grab at the sorcerer, and when that is futile, it tears a machine off of one of the walls and pries Strange from the edge of the hole, making him dive into the abyss. He drops the apparatus into the hole and lets out a celebratory shout.

The Cloak snaps off Marc, making him fall onto the ground with a yelp. Pain sears through his leg, and he brings it up to his chest, gritting at the pain. 

The beast turns its attention toward him, now finished with Strange. It creeps forward like it’s teasing him, playing with its prey, before raising his hand, making a fist, and trying to hit it against Marc.

Thankfully, his leg can still work, and he narrowly avoids it by propelling himself to the side as the fist as it slams down on the ground. Marc gets up shakily, glaring at the beast.

Suddenly, as the beast is about to retract its hand from beside Marc, it lets out a wail. It snaps around, not looking at Marc anymore, and he watches as Strange comes swinging around, with the Cloak holding him up, clutching onto a part of the machine the beast dropped in with Strange. He pushes it down against the beast's back as he points toward the hall. The beast lets out a screech and spins around again. Marc takes Strange’s hand signal to begin limping toward the exit. 

The beast, realizing what’s going on, grabs at his back. He makes a lucky swipe as Marc enters the hall. Marc turns around, hearing the yell, as Strange and the Cloak squirm inside the beast's grasp. The beast hurls them toward the ground, thankfully near the exit, and lets out a roar. A mixture of dust and ash explodes from the impact, covering the room.

Marc watches as the dust clears, and Strange and the Cloak are unmoving. His stomach drops.

Not thinking, he runs as fast as possible to the sorcerer. He grabs onto his arms, using all of his strength to drag Strange to the exit. Caught in celebration, the Beast doesn’t realize this until Marc makes it to the hall, and it snaps its head around, eyes digging into his soul.

Marc stumbles and sees stars underneath his eyes. He falls to the ground, pushing Strange in the back of him. He doesn’t want to die, especially at the hands of a rotten, melting, green skeleton, but if Strange wakes up from his stupor, he’s the only able-bodied one to save both of them.

That was true until the glass dome above the beast shattered, and the pulsating in his mind became unbearable. The beast lets out another yell, louder than the rest, combined with a man's shout. His voice is deep, soothing, almost, and eerily familiar. 

A hammer comes in from where the man, obviously still attached to the beast, fell and hits it from the side, forcing the beast to turn around, and Marc’s eyes land on who is saving them.

Holy shit.

Badr is unrelentingly slicing into the beast's back with a Khopesh. The beast's cries become more high-pitched as the hammer, which Marc registers as Thors, continues to hit it. The beast swings around, trying to claw at Badr, but with one long drag of the blade down its spine, the beast drops dead, hitting the ground with a thud. The hammer takes the final hit and flies out of the room, presumably back to Thor.

The pulsating stops and goes far, far away. 

He’s been feeling Thor’s hammer this entire time.

Badr takes a deep breath, stands, and locks eyes with Marc. The movement snaps Marc out of his mind and back to reality.

If Marc could walk easily without seeing stars, he would’ve embraced his brother as soon as he entered the room. Instead, he continues to sit and stare, his arms curled around Strange’s body instinctually, like they’ll defend him from the dead beast. Marc loathes it. However, he can’t bring himself to speak, the pit in his throat swelling enough for no words to be able to get out.

As if Badr knows what Marc wants, he takes the initiative and walks up to him. He crouches and extends his hand, testing what Marc will allow in his state. 

Marc takes Badr’s hand, and before his brother can do anything else, he drags Badr onto him. He curls around the burly figure, clawing at his back and embracing.

They’re safe.

Chapter Text

Marc has no idea how long he’s been grabbing onto Badr. The only thing he does know is that everyone is safe.

They’ll be okay.

Marc melts further against his brother as he tosses part of his cape over him, covering him in what smells of mothballs, just like the Mission. Marc sighs, grabbing Badr tighter as he stands, taking Marc in his arms.

Marc doesn’t fight back.

Badr brings his wrist to his mouth, taps Strange’s body with his foot, and groans. His voice sounds exhausted and throat sore. Marc can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt wash over him at the sound. He has definitely been covering for him for the weeks he’s been gone.

“Team one, I have found the location of Spector and Strange,” Badr states, clicking something under his mask— likely a comm. “Both are compromised. Have you found Clea and Bats yet?”

Marc hears a murmur on the other side, which makes him worried. What if they haven’t found them? What if they’re—

Badr presses his free hand against Marc’s head, listening to the comm as he curls his fingers around the greasy hair. Marc buries his head further into his brother's shoulder.

The worry doesn’t go away, but Badr makes it bearable.

“Vision, that would be very helpful. We are rendezvousing at the gateway, yes?” Badr asks, bringing his hand up to click his comm for a second before returning to trying to comfort Marc.

“We aren’t leaving Clea behind,” Marc snaps, pointing a finger at Badr and pulling away from his chest. “Or Bats. If you do, so help me—”

“We found them before you two. Do not worry.” Badr assures, voice soothing. Marc’s glare breaks apart as he sighs, collapsing against his brother again. “Vision will be here in a few moments to tend to Strange. Afterward, we are to head to the gateway and head home.” 

Marc nods, acknowledging him. Worry washes away and gets replaced with a sense of anticipation. He feels selfish about how fast he wants to return home, but being here hasn’t been a cakewalk. He’s been dying from hunger, sickness, and everything in between. 

He never wants to eat fish ever again. The taste still lingers in his mouth.

Marc hears Strange groan from behind him, and he immediately sits up. Badr, startled by the sudden jolt away, presses his hand against Marc’s back, trying to hold him steady. 

Strange blinks a few times and rubs his temples. The Cloak flutters to life, latching itself onto him as fast as possible. It helps him balance himself as he gets onto his two feet dizzily. Badr offers a hand, which was once on Marc’s back, and Strange takes it without hesitation.

“You are?” Strange inquires, squinting at Badr. His eyes go from Marc to Badr, and confusion washes over his skeptical glare.

“Hunters Moon, fist of Khonshu. Son of the—”

“He’s my brother.” Marc fills in the blanks for Strange. “Brother by god association.”

“I am the left fist of Khonshu, while he is the right.” Badr glares down at Marc, shaking his head. “You love your verses. I do not interrupt them. Why do you interrupt mine?”

“You need to work on yours.” Marc yawns, adrenaline leaving his system slowly. Badr radiates a sense of safety, and he can’t be helped but get pulled into it. “Plus, it’s my job to interrupt you if it gets too Khonshu-y.”

Badr scoffs, looking away from Marc’s smug look. Strange, who looks even more confused, shakes his head.

“There are two of you now?” Strange whispers as he rubs his temples. “Is there anyone else here to help us get out?”

“Vision, Thor, and T’Challa are here to help.” Badr nods, shifting his hand onto Marc’s back once Strange lets go of it. “Vision will be here momentarily to check on the two of you. Once done, we will head to the gateway, and the portal back home will be open.”

“You can’t open portals in here. There’s no magic.” Strange glares at Badr, skeptical of him. “And most importantly, Bats and my wife are still missing. Unless you’ve discovered them already.”

Badr sighs as Vision— Good timing, Marc remarks— descends from the hole in the dome. Badr shifts his position to look at the robot, watching as his cape whips around him in the air. 

“I can assure you, Stephen Strange, that everyone else who has disappeared in this realm is safe with the other half of this group.” Vision proclaims, voice booming across the room. Marc winces and squeezes his hands together, not enjoying the loudness.

Vision lands on the ground, silent as a mouse, a stark comparison from his voice, and approaches the group. He nods toward Badr, who reciprocates the same sentiment and shuffles away. 

“I am going to scan you. Do not worry. You will not feel a thing.” Vision assures, putting on a brief smile before looking at the ground. His eyes flash from his usual yellow to white a few times before a projected wall of light appears, flashes over Strange, and disappears. His eyes go to normal, and a screen forms above his fingertips. 

It’s a small blue screen with Strange’s body twirling around in the center. Strange walks up to the screen, looking at it quizzically.

“You are a bit malnourished, and there are multiple injuries to your body, albeit none fatal.” Vision states as the body starts to glow yellows in certain places. Marc bites his lip and looks away. He doesn’t want to know how bad it’ll look for him. “Overall, stable. Now, Hunters Moon, will you please put Spector down?”

Badr nods, and before Marc can retort, he’s on his feet, with the Cloak lifting his weight off the ground. Vision’s eyes flash quickly, light scans Marc’s body, and a new screen pops up. Badr brings Marc back into his arms with a huff, and the Cloak drifts off him. It’s so fast that Marc can barely register anything, making everything feel like a fuzzy, disconnected mess. He clings back onto Badr, blinking a few times.

“Like Strange, you are also a bit malnourished. However, your left leg needs care immediately, and your body seems to be fighting an infection-induced sickness.” Vision flicks the screen off as most of, if not all of, his leg slowly turns into an array of yellows and reds. 

Vision steps away from the group, bringing himself off the ground. The light shines against his form, and for the first time, Marc feels astonished by the look of Vision. He looks so elegant. His voice is even better than his look, sounding robotic yet as soothing as his father reading for him to sleep during his childhood, and Marc closes his eyes as Vision speaks. He’s safe in the hands of three of the strongest lifeforms on Earth… in his opinion.

“We need to get back to Earth immediately. Hunters Moon?”

Badr nods, stepping beside Vision, now shorter than the robot. Vision wraps his arms under Badr’s shoulders, making Marc frown with the sudden uncomfortableness. He raises himself higher into the air, taking the two with him. However, he pauses, turning to Strange, who’s already one step ahead, and taking off with them, the Cloak bringing him into the air.

“To the gateway?” Strange asks, a sense of relief swelling in his chest.

Vision nods, smiling. “To the gateway.”

The trip to the gateway is pleasant, everything considered. Stephen is far less tense than before, and Hell, Marc’s already back to being passed out. At first, it was frightening, like a patient falling asleep after losing massive amounts of blood, but Vision assured the two that it was okay for the time. 

Stephen can’t say he’ll miss this dimension— far from it. This dimension is now one of his most hated. He loathes the ash and the machinery that lines every wall of the god-forsaken world. He cannot wait to take a long bath and to sleep for days.

The trip ends briefly, and the four land on the ground safely. It’s where Stephen was with everyone else before they got split up. The narrow alley brings a sour taste to his mouth, and he glares at the entrance.

“We are at the gateway,” Vision presses the comm on his head. “Where are you?”

Stephen sighs, leaning against a wall. His brain isn’t taking in that they’re finally safe like Spectors. It feels like a trick. They’ll enter the portal and still be away from their wanted destination. He clenches his hands into a fist at the thought. He needs to destress, feel safe, and fast. It isn’t a want anymore, it’s a need.

He folds his arms and raises his eyebrows at Hunters Moon, who exchanges a blank stare. He curls his hand around Marc’s head and turns away from the sorcerer.

Stephen smirks, watching as Marc sleepily blinks awake against his brother's shoulder. It’s kind of cute. Not Marc, no way in Hell is he attractive— even if his eyes are beautifully odd— but the way Hunters Moon cradles him like he’s a fragile object is comforting. It’s nice to see he has people who’ll care for him during a low point.

It’s even better to feel the happiness bubble in his chest, replacing the tense stress, when he realizes he’s become one of them.

“We have incoming,” Vision states, putting his hand down from his head. He puts himself in front of the group, floating off the ground.

“Incoming?” Hunters Moon inquires just as a building explodes in front of Vision, and out comes the orange beast with multiple figures flying into the air from the sudden extrusion. 

The beast roars, and Stephen hurries next to Vision, snapping into action. He watches the people scramble back onto their feet as the beast turns and sprints at the team. 

So much for this trip back home being easy, Stephen huffs. He squints at the scene, seeing the people run toward the group at the gateway. Why does this dimension have to be so difficult?

“Its coat is as strong as Vibranium!” Thor, who skids to a halt beside Stephen, hammer at the ready, yells out. “The Moon’s Hunter, do you have the Knight of Moons at hand?”

Hunters Moon, who has stayed behind because of Marc, sighs. Stephen holds back a laugh at the nickname Thor has oh-so-graciously gifted him. “Yes, I do, Thor. However, he is compromised, and my job is to care for him.”

“That I know of, Moon’s Hunter. Take my hammer. It’ll help him. I can take this beast head-on! It does not scare me .” Thor huffs, dropping his hammer and cracking his knuckles. “All we have to do, my friends, is to stall until the portal back to Midgard is open. From there, we shall celebrate! Drinks are on me!” He gladly exclaims as Hunters Moon brings back the hammer, letting it twirl around his person.

As Thor ends his speech, T’Challa latches himself against the beast, slow and stealthy, digging into its fur before it can reach those at the gateway. It lets out a screech, halts its sprint, and shakes its body. T’Challa flies off instantly, knocking against the ground and staying down, dazed. The beast places a paw against his chest and brings another up, but before it can swipe down onto the panther, it lets out a howl of pain.

Stephen's gaze directs itself toward the source. From there, Clea stands beside Bats, a sharp metallic rod lodged into the beast's hind leg. 

Stephen sprints toward them as the beast swings itself around, claws at the ready to knock them away. The Cloak snaps off his shoulders, pulling them both out of range from the attack as Stephen slides against the ground, narrowly missing a swipe from its paw. He gets back onto his feet and locks eyes with Clea, grinning.

Clea smiles back. It’s a wild, deranged-like smile, but it’s beautiful. Her curls fall in front of her face, unkept and greasy. Ash, dirt, scratches, and all of the above litter her body, but she still looks beautiful.

The feeling of love makes his heart swell. How did he end up here with someone this beautiful?

The Cloak tugs Stephen out of the way as the beast gets propelled away from the group. His eyes snap to the beast, with Vision pushing it out of the alley. At the same time, Thor slings T’Challa against his shoulders, racing toward the gateway. 

“Wong is opening the gateway soon. We have to go.” Hunters Moon calls out, prompting Stephen to sprint back.

The run there isn’t long, but Clea bumps beside him, and he can’t help but entwine his hand with hers. He can’t help but scoop Bats up in one arm, even if it’s difficult, and carry him the rest of the way.

He can’t help but embrace those that he loves so dearly. Even if they got separated for just a few hours, it felt like an eternity. 

He never wants to lose them again. Not in life or death.

Stephen comes to a halt as a portal begins to open. Orange, sparking circles fly out of the wall, forming a portal to a land of winding roads completely encompassed in space. He looks out at the crossroads, taking it all in for a second before stepping in.

Marc is back asleep, still being cradled in Hunters Moon’s arms. He looks at ease in his brother's arms, finally safe. Clea presses her head against his shoulder, and a smile breaks out along his face. Bats licks at his clothing, letting Stephen hold him.

The four take a collective deep breath— even though it wouldn’t be possible for Bats, and Marc is asleep, but let him think that— and take a step into the crossroads.

One step into the crossroads.

One step to home.