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[rosesofred7]

Recovery ch. 16

Artist/Author:  rosesofred  Title: Recovery Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU Summary:  Notes & Warnings:  Links: Masterlist Part 14 Part 16

“Steven.” The voice was soft, just above a whisper.

Steven cracked his eyes open. “Huh?"

“I know you’re awake."

“I am now, yeah."

“Shh, don’t wake Osiris.” Anubis said in a hushed tone.

“Sorry. What is it?”

A long pause stretched between them. Anubis shifted on the bed, sitting up. “I’m sorry I left you behind to deal with Harrow by yourself."

Oh. Steven propped himself up by his elbow, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. His vision was still blurry in the dark room, the only light coming from the window where the moon shone in. “It’s alright."

“No it’s not. I miscalculated. I didn’t think about what Harrow would do to you. I’m sorry."

Steven pursed his lips, surprised by the apology. He kind of thought Anubis hated him after lunch, but he welcomed this more than hatred any day. “Right. I, um-“ Steven cleared his throat. “I forgive you."

“You shouldn’t.” Anubis said, looking down at him. He didn’t move but somehow Steven could sense the nervous energy in him.

“Well I do.”

“I betrayed you."

"You didn't betray me," Steven said. "You made a mistake."

Anubis's jaw tightened. "A mistake that got you hurt."

"Yeah, well, join the club. I've made plenty of those myself." Steven sat up fully, keeping his movements slow so he wouldn’t hurt his ribs.

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because you’re human. You're fragile. When I make mistakes, I can recover. You..." He trailed off.

Steven let out a breath through his nose. "I'm tougher than I look."

"Are you?" Anubis turned back to face him, and in the moonlight Steven could see the skepticism written across his features. "You don't eat. You don't sleep. You don't even remember to take your medications."

Steven felt heat creep up his neck. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You haven't been fine in a very long time." Anubis shifted closer, his voice dropping even lower. "And I left you with someone who wanted to kill you."

"But he didn't."

“Boys.” Osiris’s voice was loud in the quiet room, his tone commanding but not yet angry. “You should both be sleeping."

Steven froze, caught like a child sneaking sweets before dinner. Beside him, Anubis went rigid.

"Sorry, Father," Anubis murmured, shoulders hunching inward.

Osiris shifted in the chair, turning to face them both. The moonlight caught the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the firmness in his expression. "Steven, lie down."

"I wasn’t-"

"Down. Now."

Steven swallowed and lowered himself back onto the mattress, wincing as his ribs protested the movement. The covers rustled as Osiris reached over, his large hand finding Steven's forehead and smoothing back his hair with surprising gentleness.

"You need rest more than conversation," Osiris said, his voice softer now but still brooking no argument. "Your body is trying to heal."

"We were just talking," Steven protested weakly.

"And you can talk in the morning." The hand moved from his forehead to his shoulder, applying gentle pressure. "Close your eyes."

Steven wanted to argue. The words sat on his tongue, ready to spill out, but something about the weight of Osiris's hand on his shoulder made them die before they could form. He let his eyes drift shut instead.

"You too, Anubis," Osiris said. "Whatever guilt you're carrying can wait until sunrise."

"I can't sleep."

"You can, and you will." There was no anger in Osiris's tone, just quiet certainty. "Apologizing won't change what happened. Learning from it will."

Anubis didn't respond, but Steven heard him settle back down on his other side. The bed dipped slightly with the movement.

"Both of you," Osiris continued, his hand still resting on Steven's shoulder, "made choices. Some good, some poor. Tomorrow we'll address them properly. Tonight, you both sleep."

In the morning Steven woke to be dressed and groomed by Isis while Osiris got Anubis ready. Anubis was far more defiant than him, refusing his father every step of the way until he nearly ended up over the god’s knee.

At breakfast Anubis still refused to eat but Osiris didn’t threaten to feed him this time. He only observed, his eyes carefully calculating as he watched his son only drink the orange juice offered and refuse anything solid.

"Anubis," Osiris said, setting down his fork with deliberate care. "Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"That wasn't a request."

Anubis's jaw tightened, his hand wrapped around the glass of orange juice like it was a lifeline. "I don't want to."

Steven shifted in his seat, the tension at the table thick enough to cut. Isis placed a hand on Osiris's arm, but he shook his head.

"You will eat," Osiris repeated, his voice calm but unyielding. "Or you will not like what I must do."

Anubis stared at the plate like it had personally wronged him. His fingers drummed against the glass, a nervous tick Steven recognized from his own anxious habits.

"I can't."

"You can," Osiris said. "You simply choose not to."

"It's not that simple."

"It is exactly that simple." Osiris leaned forward, his presence filling the space between them. "You are neglecting your avatar’s body and it’s unacceptable."

“Father,"

"I will not ask again."

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Steven watched Anubis's internal struggle play out across his features. Pride warring with the desperate need for approval, defiance crashing against submission.

Finally Anubis made up his mind and leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. He’d made his choice.

But just as he said, Osiris did not ask again. He only watched, his eyes never leaving Anubis. Only at the end of the meal did he break his stare to look at Steven and ensure he’d eaten too.

“You ate. Good boy,” Osiris said when he saw Steven's plate empty.

Steven felt warmth bloom in his chest at the praise, unexpected and unearned as it seemed. He'd only eaten because he was scared of angering Osiris.

Osiris stood, moving around the table. He stopped behind Anubis's chair, resting a hand on his son's shoulder. "Stand up."

"No."

"Anubis."

His voice was heavy in a way that made even Steven straighten in his seat. Anubis remained motionless, his jaw locked, every muscle in his body taut with rebellion.

"You have three seconds," Osiris said, his voice dropping to that dangerous quiet that somehow felt louder than shouting. "One."

Anubis's eyes fixed on the untouched plate.

"Two."

Steven held his breath. Beside him, Isis had gone still, her expression unreadable.

"Three."

The word barely left Osiris's mouth before his hands moved. He hauled Anubis up from the chair with ease, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from his son. Anubis struggled, twisting in his grip, but Osiris simply hauled him up and over his shoulder.

"Put me down!" Anubis's voice pitched higher, his fists beating against Osiris's back.

Osiris didn't respond. He strode from the dining room with the same calm he'd shown at breakfast, as though carrying a fully grown god over his shoulder was no more taxing than carrying a sack of grain.

Steven sat frozen.

"Isis," Osiris said without looking back. "Take Steven to the gardens. I'll collect him when I'm finished."

"Of course, my love." Isis rose gracefully, moving around the table to Steven's side. Her hand settled on his shoulder, gentle but firm. "Come along, dear."

Steven set down his fork with shaking hands. "Is he going to be okay?"

"Anubis will be fine." Isis guided him to his feet, her fingers warm through the fabric of his shirt. "His father knows what he's doing."

They left the dining room just as Osiris disappeared down the hallway, Anubis still struggling against his hold. Steven could hear his protests echoing through the corridors, growing fainter with distance.

The gardens were quiet when they arrived. Lush greenery sprawled in every direction, flowers blooming in colors Steven couldn't name. A fountain burbled somewhere nearby, the sound peaceful enough to nearly drown out the anxious buzzing in his head.

"Sit," Isis instructed, gesturing to a stone bench beneath a sprawling tree.

Steven obeyed, lowering himself carefully onto the cool stone. His ribs still ached from yesterday, a constant reminder of Harrow's grip.

Isis settled beside him, smoothing her dress across her lap. “I know you’re worried about him but what we’re doing is for his own good."

Steven twisted his hands in his lap. "He's just going to hate me more."

"Anubis doesn't hate you."

"Could've fooled me."

Isis turned to face him, her expression patient. "My son struggles with change. You represent something unknown, something that threatens the order he's grown comfortable with." She reached over, placing her hand over his fidgeting ones. "That doesn't mean he hates you."

Steven looked down at their joined hands. Her skin was warm, her touch gentle but grounding. "He apologized last night. In the dark. He thought Osiris was asleep. We both did I guess."

"Did he?" A smile tugged at her lips. "That's progress."

"Doesn't feel like progress when he won't even eat breakfast."

"Anubis has always been stubborn. It's one of his more frustrating qualities. But more than that, he’s also struggling with something he doesn’t know how to deal with. The combination is more than he can handle." Isis squeezed his hands before releasing them. "But Osiris won't let him harm himself, no matter how much he protests."

A bird landed on a nearby branch, its feathers iridescent in the sunlight. Steven watched it preen, envying its simplicity. No gods, no guilt, no complicated family dynamics.

“Are birds here real? In the Duat?” Steven asked, unable to ignore the gnawing question. "Do birds have souls? Do they get judged?"

Isis laughed, the sound warm and musical. "What an interesting question."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are, dear. That's what makes it so delightful." She tilted her head, studying the bird with him. "Yes, animals have souls. But the ones here in the Duat are more like visions, they’re not real. But even so, they aren't judged the way humans are."

"Why not?"

"Because they act on instinct, not choice. A crocodile doesn't choose to be a predator any more than a dove chooses to be gentle. They simply are what they were created to be." Her gaze shifted back to him. "Humans, however, have the burden of choice and free will. That's what makes them worth judging."

Steven watched the bird take flight, disappearing into the canopy above. "Sounds exhausting."

"Being human often is," Isis agreed.

They sat in comfortable silence after that, the garden sounds filling the space between them. Steven found himself relaxing despite everything, the tension slowly bleeding from his shoulders. The flowers smelled sweet, the air warm but not oppressive. For a moment, he could almost forget about Harrow, about his ribs, about the complicated mess his life had become.

Footsteps on the stone path made him tense again.

Osiris emerged from behind a hedge, his expression neutral. Whatever had happened with Anubis, he showed no signs of it on his face. His suit was still pristine, his bearing still calm and controlled.

"How is he?" Isis asked, rising to meet her husband.

"Stubborn." Osiris's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "But fed."

Steven's stomach twisted with sympathy for Anubis. He could imagine what that meant.

Osiris turned his attention to Steven, his gaze assessing. "Come. Sekhmet is waiting to examine you."

"I'm fine," Steven said automatically.

“No, you are not fine. Unless you think you are feeling well enough to face your consequences?"

Steven's mouth went dry. "Consequences?"

"Did you think there wouldn't be any?" Osiris crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "You left the house without permission. You put yourself in danger."

“No I just hoped…” He trailed off.

Osiris stepped closer, his presence overwhelming even in the open space of the garden. “You're in a world of trouble. The moment you’re healed enough to face the consequences of your actions, you will."

Steven's ribs chose that moment to send a sharp lance of pain through his chest. He winced, wrapping an arm around his midsection.

"Which is why Sekhmet will examine you first," Osiris continued, his voice softening slightly. "After you've healed, we'll discuss appropriate discipline."

The word 'discipline' made Steven's stomach drop. He'd watched Osiris carry Anubis off like a sack of grain not an hour ago. Whatever consequences waited for him, they wouldn't be pleasant.

"I understand," Steven managed, his voice smaller than he'd intended.

Isis moved to his side, her hand settling on his back. "Don't look so terrified, dear. Osiris isn't going to devour you."

"Just spank him," Osiris said matter of factly.

Steven felt heat flood his face. "I'm a grown man."

"Actions have consequences, Steven. The sooner you learn that, the better."

"I know actions have consequences," Steven protested weakly.

Osiris raised an eyebrow. "You're part of this family now. That means you follow the same rules as everyone else."

Steven wanted to argue, to point out that he'd never asked to be part of this family, that he'd been perfectly content with his miserable human life. But the words stuck in his throat, smothered by the weight of Osiris's gaze.

"Come," Osiris said, extending his hand. "The longer we delay, the more time you have to work yourself into a panic."

Steven took the offered hand, letting Osiris pull him to his feet. His legs felt unsteady beneath him, whether from fear or pain he couldn't tell.

Sekhmet stood in Steven's room, her medical bag already open on the nightstand. She looked up as they entered, her features composed and professional.

"On the bed," she instructed, gesturing to where Anubis lay on one side.

Steven froze.

Anubis lay curled on his side, facing the wall. A nasogastric tube snaked from his nose, secured with medical tape across his cheek. The feeding bag hung from a pole beside the bed, its contents slowly dripping through the line.

"What the fuck?" Steven breathed.

"Language," Osiris warned, but his tone lacked real heat.

Steven crossed to the bed without thinking, his own injuries forgotten. "Anubis?"

The god didn't respond. His eyes were open, staring at nothing, his jaw tight with humiliation. The tube shifted slightly with each breath, a constant reminder of his defeat.

"He refused to cooperate," Sekhmet said clinically, unpacking her stethoscope. "Osiris gave him a choice. Eat willingly, or be fed through the tube. He chose poorly. Now sit." Sekhmet's command cut through his shock. "I need to examine your ribs."

Steven lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Anubis. The god still hadn't looked at him, his gaze fixed on the wall with laser focus.

"Remove your nightgown," Sekhmet instructed.

Steven's hands froze at the hem of his nightgown. "I'm not wearing anything underneath."

"I'm aware." Sekhmet set her stethoscope on the nightstand, her expression unchanging. "I need to examine your ribs properly."

Heat crept up Steven's neck. "Can't you just, I don't know, lift it up a bit?"

"No."

“But-"

"Steven." Osiris's voice cut through his protests. "Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."

Steven's fingers tightened on the fabric. Being examined while injured was one thing. Being naked in front of three people, four if he counted Anubis, who was still pointedly ignoring him, was something else entirely.

"I'd rather not," he managed.

Sekhmet sighed. "You have injured ribs that need examination. Your modesty is not my concern."

"It's my concern."

"Then you'll be concerned while naked." She stepped closer, reaching for the hem herself. "Either you remove it, or I will."

Steven jerked back, wincing as the movement pulled at his ribs. "Fine. Just give me a second."

"You have five," Osiris said from his position by the door.

Steven glanced at Isis, hoping for support, but she only offered an encouraging smile. No help there. He looked at Anubis, who still hadn't moved, the feeding tube a stark reminder of what defiance got you in this family.

His hands shook as he gripped the nightgown. This was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He'd been to doctors before, had physicals, had been examined. But somehow this felt different. More exposed. More vulnerable.

"Three seconds," Osiris warned.

"I'm doing it!" Steven snapped, then immediately regretted his tone when Osiris raised an eyebrow.

He pulled the nightgown up, inch by excruciating inch, until cool air hit his skin. The fabric bunched around his shoulders, then over his head. He dropped it beside him on the bed, crossing his arms over his chest instinctively.

"Arms down," Sekhmet instructed, already moving forward with her stethoscope. "I can't examine you like that."

Steven lowered his arms slowly, acutely aware of every eye in the room. His skin prickled with goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Sekhmet's hands were clinical, impersonal, as she pressed against his ribcage. Steven hissed at the contact.

"Tender here?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And here?"

“Fuck. Yes."

"Language," Osiris said again, this time with more weight behind it.

Steven bit his tongue against another curse as Sekhmet's fingers prodded a particularly sore spot. They clearly weren’t totally healed yet.

"Deep breath," Sekhmet commanded, pressing the cold stethoscope against his chest.

Steven inhaled, the expansion of his lungs sending fresh waves of pain through his torso. He exhaled shakily, trying to focus on anything other than how exposed he felt. His eyes landed on Anubis again, still motionless save for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

"Again."

Another breath. More pain. Steven's hands fisted against his thighs.

"The ribs are healing," Sekhmet announced, pulling back. She reached into her bag, withdrawing a small jar. "This will help with the inflammation."

The salve was warm when she spread it across his ribs, her touch surprisingly gentle. Steven watched her work, the methodical way she covered each rib, her expression never changing.

"You'll need to rest," she said, wiping her hands on a cloth. "No strenuous activity for at least a week."

"Define strenuous," Steven muttered.

Sekhmet's eyes flicked to Osiris, then back. "Nothing that makes you wince."

"Everything makes me wince."

"Then you'll be resting quite a bit." She packed away her supplies with efficient movements. “I’ll be back in a week to check on you both. The tube stays in until then."

Anubis's shoulders went rigid at that pronouncement, the only sign he'd heard. The feeding bag continued its steady drip, indifferent to his humiliation.

"A week?" Steven asked, unable to keep the dismay from his voice as he pulled his nightgown back on. "That seems excessive."

"It's necessary," Sekhmet said, snapping her bag shut. "His avatar requires proper nutrition. Since he refuses to provide it willingly, this is the alternative."

Steven looked at Anubis again, at the rigid line of his spine, the way his hands were clenched beneath the covers. A week of having that tube down his throat seemed like torture.

"Can't you just let him try again?"

"No,” Osiris said sharply. "This is not up for discussion. Anubis made his choice. Now he lives with it."

"It's cruel."

The words left Steven's mouth before he could stop them. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

Osiris moved from the doorway, his footsteps deliberate against the stone floor. "Cruel would be allowing him to waste away while I do nothing."

"But a whole week?"

“If that's what it will take for him to understand that I will not tolerate self destruction." Osiris stopped at the foot of the bed, his gaze fixed on Steven with an intensity that made him want to shrink. "Just as I will not tolerate it from you."

Steven's mouth snapped shut.

"You're both experts at neglecting yourselves," Osiris continued, his voice firm. "Skipping meals, working past exhaustion, pushing yourselves past reasonable limits." He gestured to Anubis, then to Steven. "The difference is that Anubis has an avatar that can withstand more abuse. You do not."

Steven looked down at his lap.

Sekhmet cleared her throat. "I'll leave you to it." She nodded to Isis, then swept from the room with her bag.

The silence she left behind was suffocating. Steven could feel Osiris's gaze boring into him, could sense Isis watching from her position near the window. On the bed beside him, Anubis remained frozen.

"Steven." Osiris's voice softened fractionally. "Look at me."

Steven forced his head up, meeting those stern eyes.

"I know this is difficult," Osiris said. "I know you're not accustomed to having people care whether you live or die. But you're part of this family now. That means your wellbeing matters."

"I didn't ask to be part of this family."

"No, you didn't." Osiris moved closer, settling on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. "But here you are regardless. And I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself any more than I'll allow Anubis to do the same."

Steven's throat tightened. Part of him wanted to argue, to insist he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. But the words wouldn't come. Because they both knew it would be a lie.

"Rest," Osiris commanded. "Both of you."

[rosesofred7]

Recovery ch. 15

Artist/Author:  rosesofred  Title: Recovery Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU Summary:  Notes & Warnings:  Links: Masterlist Part 14 Part 16

Steven shifted against the mountain of pillows Isis had insisted on arranging behind his back. The book in his lap, some old text about pyramid construction that Osiris had pulled from his personal library, weighed heavy against his thighs. His fever had broken a day ago, leaving him feeling weak but clear headed for the first time in what felt like weeks.

Across the room, Isis sat in the armchair by the window, her laptop balanced on her knees. The soft clicking of her keyboard provided a steady rhythm to the afternoon. She'd been monitoring him since Osiris went to rest an hour ago, though she pretended to be absorbed in whatever divine spreadsheets were on her screen.

Steven turned a page, squinting at the hieroglyphics. The symbols swam slightly, residual weakness making his eyes tire faster than usual.

Isis glanced over the top of her laptop. "Sit up properly. You'll hurt your back slouching like that."

Steven straightened, biting back a sigh. Days of constant supervision, constant corrections, constant hovering had been driving him mad. He understood the pneumonia had scared them, scared him too, if he was honest, but the suffocating attention was making him claustrophobic.

"Better," Isis approved, returning to her work.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by keyboard clicks and the occasional rustle of pages. Steven forced himself to focus on the text, on architectural theories that predated modern civilization by millennia. Anything to avoid thinking about how trapped he felt, stuck in this bed while the world moved on without him.

His eyelids grew heavy. The medication Sekhmet had him on made him drowsy, though the doctor had assured him the fatigue would pass once his body finished healing.

A door slammed somewhere in the house, sharp enough to make Steven jolt upright. Voices filtered through the walls, one familiar and smooth, the other deeper, rumbling with barely contained fury.

“-weeks, Anubis. We've been searching-"

"Found him skulking around some cave system near the Afghan border," Horus cut in, sounding far too pleased with himself. "Playing hermit with the mountain goats."

Steven's fingers tightened on the book's spine. Anubis was back. He'd wondered where the god had disappeared to, though he’d thought the god was gone for good.

Isis snapped her laptop shut, already on her feet. "Stay in bed."

She swept from the room, leaving the door ajar. Steven strained to hear, but the voices had dropped to murmurs punctuated by Osiris's distinct growl. Furniture scraped against floor tiles. Someone, Anubis, maybe, said something too quiet to make out, followed by Horus's bark of laughter.

"This isn't funny," Osiris snapped, his voice booming. "You don't just vanish for weeks without a word. Do you have any idea what your mother went through? What we all went through?"

"I needed space." Anubis sounded flat, emotionless. Defensive.

"Space. While you were supposed to be recovering from depression and we tore across the world looking for you?"

There was a long silence before the sounds of muffled movements, scuffing of shoes, and what sounded like groaning. Then the sharp crack of flesh on flesh rang through the house, unmistakable. Steven flinched, his book sliding forgotten onto the comforter.

Another crack. Then another, setting a steady, methodical rhythm that made Steven's stomach clench.

"Running away,” crack, "doesn't solve,” crack, "—anything." Osiris's voice remained level, almost conversational, despite the punishment he was delivering. "You know better than this."

Anubis made a sound, half-gasp, half-protest.

"We agreed you'd stay where we could help you," Isis said, her tone gentle but firm. "You promised, baby."

"I didn’t- I couldn’t-" Anubis's words dissolved into a sharp inhale as another swat landed.

Steven pressed back against the pillows, torn between looking away from the door and the perverse inability to stop listening. Heat crawled up his neck. This was private family business that he had no right to witness, even just through sound alone.

But he couldn't block out the steady percussion, the way Osiris landed each swat. He couldn't ignore how Anubis's breathing hitched and broke, pride warring with pain in every ragged exhale.

"Thirty more," Osiris announced. "And you're going to explain to your mother why she spent weeks thinking you were dead in a ditch somewhere."

"I would never let my avatar die."

The next swat landed harder. “You left Steven alone with Harrow to fend for himself."

Steven's fingers twisted in the blankets. He wasn’t wrong, it had been pretty rude to leave him alone with Harrow while Anubis escaped with the ushabti.

The crack that followed echoed sharper than the others. Anubis made a choked sound, and Steven heard the distinct shuffle of someone trying to squirm away.

"Stay still." Osiris's command brooked no argument. "You don't get to run from this too."

"I didn't abandon him," Anubis protested, his voice strained. "Harrow wouldn't have killed him, I knew that!"

"You didn't know anything. You made an assumption and left a vulnerable human alone with a fanatic." Another swat punctuated the point. "What if you were wrong?"

Steven's chest tightened. He'd spent those hours with Harrow terrified, convinced every minute might be his last. The torture, the threat of Ammit returning, the scales that could judge him and send him to the endless sands.

"I thought-” Anubis started.

"No, you didn't think. That's the problem." Isis's voice cut through, disappointed rather than angry. "You've been acting on impulse for months now, pushing everyone away, disappearing when things get difficult."

"I'm not a child."

"Then stop behaving like one," Osiris said, delivering another measured swat. "Running away, ignoring your responsibilities, putting others at risk because you can't handle your emotions. What exactly would you call that?"

Silence answered him, broken only by Anubus's labored breathing. Steven stared at his hands, at the book he'd abandoned on the comforter. Part of him wanted to call out, to tell them to stop, that it wasn't that serious. But the words stuck in his throat because it had been serious. He could have died. Harrow could have decided Steven wasn't worth it as a hostage.

"I'm sorry." Anubis's voice cracked, small and defeated in a way Steven had never heard from the god before.

"I know you are." Osiris's tone softened fractionally. "But sorry doesn't fix the trust you broke. We're a family, and that means we don't abandon each other when things get hard. And right now, even if only temporarily, Steven is part of that family."

Steven's throat constricted. Part of the family. The words settled over him heavy, pressing down on his chest in a way that had nothing to do with his recovering lungs.

The rhythmic crack of discipline continued from the other room, but Steven barely registered it anymore. His vision blurred, and he blinked rapidly, refusing to acknowledge the sting behind his eyes. When was the last time anyone had called him family? When was the last time he'd been anything more than a colleague, an afterthought, someone who existed on the periphery of other people's lives?

Even his own mum never returned his calls, she was too busy.

But Osiris had just declared him family. Not a project, not a burden to tolerate until they could send him back to his miserable existence. Family.

The spanking had stopped. Quiet murmurs filtered through the door, Isis's soothing voice mixed with what might have been Anubis's shaky breathing. Steven pressed his palm against his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath his ribs.

Part of him wanted to reject it, to build up the walls that had kept him safe from disappointment for so long. They were gods. Immortal beings who'd plucked him from his life to take custody. And yet they considered him family. Khonshu could never.

Suddenly door swung open, and Osiris filled the frame, his expression softer than the stern disciplinarian Steven had heard moments before. He'd rolled his sleeves down, composed and calm as if he hadn't just delivered a thorough punishment to his nephew/son.

"Lunch is ready." Osiris crossed the room in a few strides, one hand coming to rest on Steven's forehead. Checking for fever, always checking. "I think you're well enough to join us in the dining room. What do you say?"

Steven blinked, thrown by the casual transition. “I, um- yeah, sure. That'd be nice, actually."

"Good." Osiris pulled back the covers. "You've been cooped up in here long enough. A change of scenery will do you good."

Steven swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his muscles protested the movement. Days of bed rest had left him weaker than he'd anticipated. Or had it been weeks? He gripped the mattress edge, willing his body to cooperate.

Osiris watched him with that patient, assessing gaze that saw everything. "Take your time."

"I'm fine," Steven muttered, pushing himself to stand. His knees wobbled, and Osiris's hand shot out to steady him, fingers wrapping around his bicep.

"Clearly." The dryness in Osiris's tone made Steven's face heat.

"Just need a minute for my legs to remember how this works."

Osiris didn't release him, keeping that steadying grip as Steven found his balance. The floor felt solid beneath his bare feet, though his body swayed slightly, adjusting to being vertical again.

"Better?"

Steven nodded, not trusting his voice. Through the open door, he caught a glimpse of the hallway, of Isis guiding a subdued Anubis toward the dining room. The god moved stiffly, his usual graceful stride replaced with careful, measured steps.

Osiris kept his hand on Steven's arm as they walked, a steady presence that prevented any stumbling. Steven's legs remembered how to function with each step, though the short journey to the dining room left him more winded than he cared to admit.

The dining room came into view, sunlight streaming through tall windows to illuminate the polished table. Anubis sat hunched in one of the chairs, a thick cushion beneath him, his shoulders curved inward like he was trying to make himself smaller.

His eyes were red-rimmed, wet tracks still visible on his cheeks despite his obvious attempts to wipe them away. He sniffled, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and refused to look up as they entered.

Isis sat beside him, one hand resting on his back rubbing slow, soothing circles. Her expression held that particular blend of sympathy and firmness that only mothers seemed to master.

"There we are," she murmured to Anubis, her voice pitched low and gentle. "Deep breaths, puppy. You're alright."

Anubis's jaw clenched, but he obeyed, drawing in a shaky breath that caught halfway through. Another sniffle escaped him.

Steven froze in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. This felt too intimate, too raw to witness. Anubis looked nothing like the composed god who’d escaped the Duat with him and left him behind. He looked young and hurt and embarrassed, and Steven had no idea where to put his eyes.

Horus lounged at the far end of the table, scrolling through his phone casually, though Steven caught the way his gaze flicked toward his brother every few seconds.

Osiris guided Steven to a chair across from Isis, pulling it out for him. "Sit. I'll fix you a plate."

Steven sat, gripping the edge of the table as Osiris took his plate and began dishing him up what appeared to be mashed potatoes and some kind of meat.

Isis reached for a napkin from the holder, dabbing gently at Anubis's face. He flinched away, turning his head to the side.

"Stop it," he muttered, voice rough.

"Sit still." Isis caught his chin, tilting his face toward her. "You're a mess."

"M'fine."

"You're not." She wiped beneath his eyes, ignoring his protests. "There. That’s better."

Anubis pulled away the moment she released him, crossing his arms over his chest and staring hard at the table surface. His jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth, fresh moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes.

Osiris set down the plate in front of Steven, his expression firm. The portion sizes looked reasonable for once, not the mountain of food they usually insisted he consume. Steam rose from the mashed potatoes, and the meat, some kind of roasted chicken, had been cut into manageable pieces.

"Eat." Osiris settled into the chair at the head of the table, his own plate already prepared.

Steven picked up his fork, acutely aware of the tension radiating from across the table. Anubis shifted in his seat, wincing, then forced himself still. The cushion beneath him did little to hide his discomfort.

Horus finally glanced up from his phone. "Drama queen."

"Shut up," Anubis snapped without looking at him.

"Both of you." Osiris's tone was warning. "We're having a civilized meal."

Horus smirked but returned his attention to his phone. Anubis slumped further in his chair, picking at the napkin in his lap.

Isis began filling plates for herself and Anubis, her movements calm and methodical. She placed Anubis's in front of him, cutting his chicken into smaller pieces without asking.

"I can do that myself."

"I know you can." Isis continued cutting. "But I'm doing it anyway."

Steven focused on his own food, taking a small bite of potato. It melted on his tongue, seasoned perfectly, but his appetite still wasn’t there. He forced himself to swallow, then took another bite, aware of Osiris watching him from the corner of his eye.

Across the table, Anubis stared at his plate like it had personally offended him. Isis touched his shoulder, a gentle prompt.

“Eat a little, it’ll make you feel better,” Isis said softly.

“I’m not hungry,” Anubis muttered.

“You will eat,” Osiris said firmly. It wasn’t a request.

Anubis picked up his fork sloly, spearing a piece of chicken. He brought it toward his mouth, his movements sluggish. Then, just before the fork reached his lips, the meat vanished, disappearing into thin air. The fork touched his mouth empty, and he made a show of chewing nothing.

Steven's fork paused halfway to his own mouth. He watched, torn between fascination and discomfort, as Anubis repeated the trick with a scoop of mashed potatoes. The food dissolved before it could pass his lips, scattered into nothingness while Anubis's jaw worked in an elaborate pantomime.

The promise echoed in Steven's head. Don't tell anyone. He'd sworn he wouldn't reveal Anubis's tricks, back when they were in Harrow’s compound, before everything had gone sideways with the ushabti and Anubis's disappearing act.

Isis smiled, apparently satisfied with her son's compliance. She turned her attention to her own plate, cutting into her chicken.

Anubis met Steven's eyes across the table, just for a second. Something flickered there, defiant and challenging. Daring Steven to break his word.

Steven looked away, shoving potato into his mouth. This wasn’t his problem. If Anubis wanted to starve himself using magic while pretending to eat, that was between him and his parents. Steven had his own problems, like the fact that his lungs still burned with every deep breath and the weakness that made his hand shake around his fork.

"That's better," Isis murmured to Anubis, watching him take another invisible bite. "See? Not so terrible."

Anubis made a noncommittal sound, stabbing at his vegetables. They vanished at his lips. His plate was emptying at a steady rate, food disappearing piece by piece, while his body received nothing.

Steven's stomach twisted. This was wrong. Anubis was hurt and angry and clearly not coping well, and here Steven sat, complicit in the deception because of a promise he made days ago. Or weeks ago, he still wasn’t sure about that.

But a promise was a promise. Even when it felt like he was helping Anubis hurt himself.

Osiris watched them both, his expression unreadable as he ate his own meal slowly. “Something is bothering you, Steven."

Steven's fork clattered against his plate. "What? No, I'm fine."

"You've been staring at your food for the past minute without taking a bite." Osiris set down his own fork, giving Steven his full attention. "What's wrong?"

Heat crawled up Steven's neck. Across the table, Anubis had gone very still, another forkful of food hovering near his mouth.

"Just tired," Steven managed. "Still getting my strength back."

Osiris studied him with that penetrating gaze that seemed to strip away every layer of deflection. Steven forced himself to take a bite, chewing while his mind raced. The potato turned to paste in his mouth.

"You're a terrible liar." Osiris leaned back in his chair, his fingers lacing together on his lap. "Try again."

"I'm not lying."

"Steven."

Anubis's jaw clenched, his eyes boring into Steven with an intensity that made his skin prickle. Don't tell. The unspoken command hung between them, as binding as the promise Steven had made.

But Osiris was waiting, and Steven had learned enough about the god to know he wouldn't let this drop. The silence stretched, uncomfortable and heavy, while Isis paused her own eating to watch the exchange.

Steven's fingers twisted around his napkin. "It's nothing, really. Just... adjusting to being up and about again."

"Hm." Osiris didn't look convinced. He glanced at Anubis, who'd resumed his charade of eating, making the vegetables on his plate disappear. "Both of you are hiding something."

"We're not," Anubis said too quickly.

Horus snorted from the end of the table. "This is getting good."

"Quiet." Osiris didn't take his eyes off Steven and Anubis. "I'm going to ask one more time before I get hands on. What's going on?"

Steven's throat constricted. The promise warred with the threat Osiris had so casually just dropped, and Steven didn’t know which was worse. Betraying Anubis or lying to Osiris.

Steven's fork trembled in his grip. The weight of both gods' attention pressed down on him, suffocating. His promise to Anubis pulled at one side while Osiris's expectant stare anchored the other.

Anubis shifted in his seat, the movement sharp despite the wince that followed. "There's nothing to tell. Steven's recovering, I just got my ass handed to me, and we're all eating lunch. That's it."

"Language," Isis murmured, though her focus remained on the tension crackling across the table.

Osiris's expression hardened. "I'm going to count to three."

Steven's stomach dropped. The measured calm in Osiris's voice somehow made the threat worse than any shouting could have.

"One."

Anubis's knuckles whitened around his fork. Another piece of chicken vanished at his lips, his jaw working through the pantomime while Steven's chest constricted.

"Two."

This was ridiculous. Steven wasn't a child, wasn't even really part of this family despite what Osiris had said earlier. He shouldn't be caught in the middle of whatever dysfunction was playing out between Anubis and his parents.

But he had promised.

Osiris stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "Three."

"Wait!” Steven panicked.

Osiris grabbed the back of his nightgown, hauling him up. He sat down where Steven had been sitting, pulling the man down. He guided him with firm hands, making sure Steven's ribs didn’t hit his knees too hard as he was bent over Osiris’s knee. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Steven."

“Wait.” Anubis said in a deep voice. He looked agitated, throwing his fork down. “Alright you want to know what’s going on? I’m not eating my food. Disappearing it with my powers and pretending to eat. I made Steven promise not to tell, that’s why he’s not saying anything. There, happy?"

Osiris's grip loosened on Steven's nightgown, but he didn't let him up. Instead, his hand settled between Steven's shoulder blades, holding him in place while he processed Anubis's confession.

"You made Steven lie for you."

"I asked him not to tell. There's a difference."

"Not from where I'm sitting." Osiris's voice dropped to that dangerous quiet that Steven had learned meant someone was in serious trouble. "Steven, stand up."

Steven scrambled off Osiris's lap, his face burning as he straightened his nightgown. His legs wobbled, though whether from weakness or mortification, he couldn't tell.

Osiris rose, his attention fixed entirely on Anubis now. "How long has this been going on?"

Anubis slouched in his chair, his arms crossed. "Does it matter?"

"How. Long."

The silence stretched. Isis had set down her fork, her expression shifting from maternal warmth to something harder, more concerned. Horus actually looked up from his phone, his usual smirk fading.

“Since the family dinner a few weeks ago." Anubis's voice came out flat, defiant.

"Weeks." Isis pressed her hand to her mouth. "You've been starving yourself for weeks and we didn't notice?"

"You were too busy fussing over Steven to pay attention to what I was doing."

Steven flinched, guilt twisting through his chest even though he'd done nothing wrong. Except make a promise he should never have agreed to.

Osiris moved around the table with heavy steps, each footfall deliberate. "That's what this is about? Jealousy?"

"I'm not jealous." Anubis pushed back from the table, rising despite the obvious discomfort it caused him.

Osiris reached him, one hand gripping Anubis's shoulder firmly. “My rooms. Now."

"We just did this."

"And apparently, I wasn't thorough enough.” Osiris hauled him up. "Move."

Anubis's eyes widened, his defiance crumbling. "You can't be serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Osiris's grip tightened, propelling Anubis toward the doorway. "You've been lying to us for weeks, manipulating Steven into keeping your secrets, and starving yourself while we thought you were recovering."

Anubis dug his heels in, wincing as the movement pulled at his already sore backside. "I told you the truth! Isn't that what you wanted?"

"You told me after I caught you. That's not honesty, that's damage control." Osiris marched him through the doorway, his patience clearly exhausted.

Steven stood frozen by his chair, watching them disappear down the hallway. The sick feeling in his stomach intensified. This was his fault. If he'd just kept his mouth shut, if he'd been a better liar, Anubis wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

"Sit down before you fall down." Isis gestured to Steven's abandoned chair, her voice gentler than her expression suggested. "This isn't on you."

Steven sank into the seat, his legs grateful for the support. “I’m sorry."

"Anubis put you in an impossible position.” Isis said. He knows better than to drag others into his self-destructive behavior."

Down the hall, a door slammed. Horus grimaced, setting his phone face down on the table for once. "Dad's really pissed."

"Watch your language." Isis's correction came automatically, but her gaze remained fixed on the hallway. Her fingers drummed against the tablecloth, the only sign of her worry. "Weeks. He's been doing this for weeks."

Steven picked up his fork, though food was the last thing on his mind. The muffled sound of Osiris's voice carried through the walls, too distant to make out words but the tone unmistakable. Stern, disappointed, and angry

Then came the sharp crack of a hand meeting flesh, louder than before, more forceful. Anubis cried out, the sound raw and pained.

Steven's fork clattered to his plate again. His chest constricted, lungs protesting the sharp inhale. This was his fault.

"Eat," Isis commanded softly, though her own plate sat forgotten. "There's nothing you can do for him right now."

Another crack echoed through the house. Then another.

Steven forced potato into his mouth, chewing mechanically while guilt churned in his stomach.

The rhythmic crack continued from down the hall, each impact making Steven's shoulders tense involuntarily. He pushed food around his plate, unable to force down another bite despite Isis's watchful gaze.

Horus shifted in his seat, uncomfortable in a way Steven had never seen from him before. "How long do you think he’s gonna go?"

"Until your father decides he's done." Isis's fingers stilled on the tablecloth. "Anubis brought this on himself."

Steven's guilt twisted deeper. Had he though? Steven had been the one who couldn't lie convincingly, who'd cracked under pressure. If he'd just been better at deflecting, at keeping his expression neutral, he could’ve gotten away with it.

"Stop that." Isis's attention snapped to him. "I can see you blaming yourself. Don't."

"But it’s my fault."

“You made a promise under duress to someone who was manipulating your sense of loyalty." Isis's tone sharpened. "Anubis knows better. He knows we worry about his eating, about his mental health, and he deliberately deceived us while using you as cover."

A particularly loud crack rang out, followed by Anubis's broken sob. Steven flinched, his hands trembling against the table edge.

The punishment went on, methodical and thorough. Osiris's deep voice rumbled between impacts, too low for Steven to catch the words, but the cadence suggested a lecture delivered with each swat. Anubis's responses grew less defiant, more desperate, his protests dissolving into gasping apologies that didn't slow Osiris's hand.

Steven's chest ached with each ragged sound. He'd heard Anubis disciplined earlier, but this felt different. Heavier, more severe. The earlier spanking had been about running away, about breaking trust. This was about self-destruction, about weeks of lies that could have ended far worse than they had.

"He'll be alright," Isis murmured, though Steven wasn't sure if she was reassuring him or herself. "Osiris knows what he's doing."

Horus pushed back from the table abruptly. "I'm going home."

"Sit." Isis's command stopped him mid-rise. "We finish meals together. You know the rules."

Horus dropped back into his chair with obvious reluctance, his jaw tight. Even he looked rattled by the sounds filtering through the walls, the evidence of just how seriously their father took Anubis's deception.

Steven forced himself to take another bite, swallowing past the lump in his throat while the discipline continued in the distant room.

After minutes dragging by, it finally stopped. The silence that followed felt heavier than the noise, broken only by Anubis's ragged breathing and what might have been Osiris's low murmur of reassurance.

Steven stared at his plate, at the food he'd barely touched. His appetite had vanished completely, replaced by a sick knot of guilt that wouldn't ease no matter how many times Isis insisted this wasn't his fault.

Isis rose from her chair, smoothing her dress. "I should check on them."

She disappeared down the hallway, leaving Steven and Horus in uncomfortable silence. Horus picked up his phone again, but his usual confidence had dimmed. His thumb scrolled without purpose, his attention clearly elsewhere.

"He does this sometimes." Horus broke the quiet, his voice lacking its usual mockery. "Gets in his head about stuff, pushes everyone away, stops taking care of himself."

Steven looked up, surprised Horus was speaking to him at all.

"Dad's hard on him because he has to be." Horus set his phone down, meeting Steven's eyes. "Anubis doesn't do anything halfway. When he spirals, he goes all in. If they don't catch it early, it gets really bad."

"How bad?"

Horus's expression darkened. "Bad enough that Dad makes him sleep with him in his room for weeks after. And bad enough that Mom won't let him out of her sight."

The weight of that settled over Steven. He'd thought the constant supervision he'd been under was suffocating, but it paled compared to what Horus was describing. Anubis had been dealing with this for how long? No wonder he was so defiant.

Down the hall, a door opened. Footsteps approached, slow and measured. Osiris appeared, Anubis leaning heavily against his side with Isis behind them. The god's face was blotchy and swollen from crying, his eyes downcast as Osiris guided him back to his chair.

Osiris lowered Anubis onto the cushion with careful hands, ignoring the sharp hiss of pain that escaped his son's lips.

"Sit." Osiris's command was gentler now, though no less firm. "You're going to finish your plate properly this time, and I'm going to watch every bite."

Isis set down a fresh plate, the food still steaming. She cut the chicken into even smaller pieces while Osiris settled into his chair at the head of the table.

Anubis's hands shook as he picked up his fork.

This time he took a bite and it didn’t disappear at his mouth. He chewed quickly, swallowing hard.

Anubis took another bite, grimacing as he forced the chicken down. His throat worked visibly with each swallow, like his body had forgotten how to process solid food after weeks of deprivation.

Osiris watched him without blinking, arms crossed over his chest. "All of it."

"I am eating it." Anubis stabbed at a carrot with more force than necessary.

"Without the attitude."

Anubis's jaw clenched, but he complied, bringing the fork to his mouth and chewing slowly. Isis reached over, touching his arm in gentle encouragement.

Steven pushed his own food around, unable to look away from the scene playing out across from him. Guilt still churned in his stomach, though Horus's words had taken some of the edge off. This wasn't about Steven failing to lie well enough. This was about Anubis's self-destructive spiral that had been building for weeks.

Anubis managed three more bites before setting his fork down, his face pale. "I can’t eat anymore. I'm going to be sick."

"Then you'll eat slower." Osiris's tone left no room for negotiation. "Pick up the fork."

“Dad."

"Now."

Anubis's hand trembled as he obeyed, spearing a piece of potato. He brought it to his mouth with obvious reluctance, chewing like it physically pained him. Steven watched his throat work, seeing the moment Anubis's eyes watered.

"That's enough," Isis murmured, covering Osiris's hand with her own. "He ate most of it. His stomach needs time to adjust."

Osiris studied Anubis's plate, calculating the remaining portion. After a long moment, he nodded. "Fine. But you're eating again at dinner, and I'll be supervising that meal too."

Anubis slumped in his chair, exhausted and miserable. The defiance had drained from him completely, leaving behind someone who looked smaller somehow, and younger. He pressed the heel of his hand against his stomach, breathing through his nose.

Steven's own plate remained half full. He forced himself to take another bite, aware of Osiris's gaze shifting between him and Anubis. The message was clear. Both of them would be monitored now, both of them would be held accountable for every meal.

Horus cleared his throat, standing. "I'm actually leaving this time."

Isis nodded, her attention fixed on Anubis. "Be safe."

Horus vanished into a portal on the wall, leaving the four of them in heavy silence.

Osiris rose from his chair, moving around the table to stand beside Steven. His hand came to rest on Steven's shoulder, firm but not unkind.

"How much have you eaten?"

Steven glanced down at his plate, calculating. "About half?"

"Finish it." Osiris squeezed his shoulder once before releasing him. "Your body needs the fuel to recover."

Steven forced down another bite of chicken. Across the table, Anubis had his eyes closed, one hand still pressed against his stomach. His breathing came in careful, measured inhales like he was fighting nausea.

Isis stood, gathering the empty dishes. "I'll make some tea. Something mild for your stomach, puppy."

Anubis didn't respond, didn't even open his eyes. He looked wrung out, exhausted in a way that went beyond physical tiredness.

Steven chewed mechanically, watching Osiris settle back into his chair. The god's attention remained split between his two charges, monitoring Steven's progress while keeping Anubis in his peripheral vision.

"When you're done eating, you're going back to bed," Osiris directed at Steven. "Both of you need rest."

"I just got up." Steven protested weakly, though exhaustion was already pulling at his limbs. The short walk to the dining room had drained more energy than he'd expected.

"And you're already pale." Osiris's observation killed any further argument. "Finish your plate, then bed."

Steven stabbed at his mashed potatoes, resentment flickering through his chest. He understood the concern, appreciated it even, but the constant supervision chafed. Every meal monitored, every movement tracked, every decision made for him like he couldn't be trusted with his own recovery.

Anubis shifted in his seat, wincing. His eyes opened, bloodshot and distant. "Can I be excused?"

"No.” Osiris said. "You're staying where I can see you until I decide otherwise."

Anubis's fingers curled against the table edge, but he didn't argue. The fight had been beaten out of him, literally and figuratively.

Steven forced down the last few bites, his stomach protesting the volume. He set his fork down with relief, pushing the empty plate away.

Osiris nodded approval. "Good. Now bed, both of you."

Anubis rose first moving with careful steps that couldn't quite hide his discomfort. Osiris stood with him, one hand hovering near his elbow in case he needed support.

Steven pushed back from the table, his legs protesting the movement. The short meal had exhausted him more than he'd anticipated, leaving his muscles weak and trembling.

Osiris guided them both from the dining room, Anubis shuffling ahead while Steven brought up the rear. The hallway stretched in front of them, each step requiring more concentration than it should.

"Steven's room is closer," Osiris announced, steering them all toward Steven's door. "You'll both rest where I can monitor you."

"I have my own room," Anubis muttered.

"And you lost the privilege of using it unsupervised when you disappeared for weeks." Osiris opened Steven's door, ushering them inside. "Get in bed."

Steven climbed onto the mattress, sinking into the pillows with relief. His lungs burned from the exertion, each breath requiring conscious effort.

Anubis stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the bed like it might bite him.

"Now, Anubis."

Anubis moved to the opposite side, lowering himself onto the mattress with a sharp inhale. He settled on his side, facing away from Steven, his body rigid with tension.

Osiris pulled the covers over both of them, tucking the blankets with the same care Isis had shown Steven during his fever. His large hands smoothed the fabric, checking that they were both settled properly.

"Sleep." Osiris settled into the armchair Isis had occupied earlier, crossing his arms. "I'll be right here."

[rosesofred7]

Recovery ch. 14

Artist/Author:  rosesofred  Title: Recovery Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU Summary:  Notes & Warnings:  Links: Masterlist Part 13 Part 15

Steven felt delirious. His vision faded in and out, trying to focus on the voices beside him as cold hands moved him, touched him, prodded him. They were working on something, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what.

Was that Sekhmet? It sounded like her voice.

“It’s not quite high enough for alarm but you were right to call me."

“What could be causing it?"

“No idea just yet. I’ll have to run some tests. Can I take blood samples?"

“Whatever you need."

It sounded like Osiris and Sekhmet, talking about him being sick. But that was ridiculous, Steven wasn’t sick. He was just really, really cold.

Steven rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth with a groan as his injured ribs protested. But he wanted to curl up, close in on himself to hold some heat in because he felt like ice. The weight on top of him was nearly unbearable, but it also wasn’t enough. How many blankets had they piled on him? He needed more.

“I’ve checked his temperature twice, he’s not even aware anymore." Was that Osiris?

"Steven." A hand touched his shoulder, warm and firm. "Can you hear me?"

He mumbled something even he didn't understand, pulling the blankets tighter.

"That's what concerns me most," Sekhmet said. "The fever isn't dangerously high, but he's completely out of it. When did this start?"

"This morning he seemed alight. Tired, but that’s normal for what he’s gone through. By midday after you left, he was shaking so badly I could hear his teeth chattering from across the room."

Steven felt fingers pry at his eyelid, a bright light piercing straight into his skull. He jerked away with a whimper.

"Sorry, little mortal," Sekhmet murmured. "Just checking."

"I don't understand how this happened so quickly."

"His immune system is probably shot to hell. You said he doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, forgets his medications?" Something cold pressed against Steven's inner arm. "Hold still for me, Steven. Just a small pinch."

He barely registered the needle sliding into his vein, too focused on trying to stop the violent tremors wracking his body. Everything ached. His ribs, his head, his joints. Even his skin hurt.

"There we go. All done." Sekhmet's voice drifted from somewhere above him. "I'll have results in a few hours. In the meantime, keep him warm and hydrated. If you can get him to drink anything, that would help."

"And if I can't?"

"Then we'll discuss other options."

Steven heard footsteps retreating, a door closing. Then that warm hand returned to his forehead, brushing sweat-dampened hair back from his face.

"You're going to be alright," Osiris said quietly. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but you will."

Steven wanted to respond, wanted to say something, but his tongue felt thick and useless in his mouth. The shaking got worse, his whole body convulsing despite the mountain of blankets covering him.

"Easy, easy." Osiris's other hand rubbed his back in slow circles. "Just breathe."

But breathing hurt. Everything hurt. And he was so cold, colder than he'd ever been in his life.

"I've got you," Osiris murmured. "You're safe here. Just rest."

Steven's eyes slipped closed again, consciousness fading in and out like static on a television. Distantly, he felt himself being gathered up, cradled against warmth that finally, finally started to penetrate the ice in his bones.

Osiris slipped into the bed beside him, wrapping strong arms around him to press him against his warmth. Finally some of the cold seemed to leak out, replaced by the heat of another person warming his core.

The shaking didn't stop, but it lessened. Steven pressed closer without conscious thought, seeking warmth like a moth to flame. Osiris adjusted the blankets around them both, tucking them in tight.

"That's it," Osiris said against his hair. "You're doing fine."

Steven wasn't doing fine. His head pounded with each heartbeat, and his stomach churned with nausea that made him glad he hadn't eaten anything recently. Not that he ever did.

Time blurred. He drifted in and out, catching fragments of conversation he couldn't quite piece together. Sekhmet returned at some point, her voice clipped and professional as she rattled off words Steven's fever-addled brain couldn't process. Monitoring. Temperature. Hydrate.

"He needs fluids," she said firmly. "If you can't get him to drink, I'll have to give him an IV."

"I'll manage it," Osiris interrupted.

"You're sure? Because I can set up an IV, it wouldn't take long."

"I said I'll manage it."

Sekhmet huffed but didn't argue further. Steven heard her gathering her things, felt another cold press of fingers against his throat checking his pulse.

"Call me if he gets worse. And I mean worse, not just 'I'm worried.' His temperature spikes above thirty nine point five, he starts vomiting, anything like that."

"Understood."

The door closed again. Osiris's arms tightened fractionally around Steven, careful of his bruised ribs.

"Can you hear me?" Osiris asked.

Steven managed something between a grunt and a whimper.

"Good enough. I need you to drink something. Just a few sips."

The thought of moving made Steven want to cry. He shook his head, or tried to, the motion barely perceptible.

"That wasn't a request."

A cup appeared at his lips, cool water pressing against his cracked mouth. Steven turned his face away, but Osiris simply followed the movement.

"You've had your way with neglecting yourself for too long," Osiris said. "That ends now. Drink."

The water trickled past his lips. Steven swallowed reflexively, the liquid soothing his parched throat even as his stomach protested. Three sips, four, before Osiris pulled the cup away.

"There. That wasn't so terrible."

Steven disagreed, but lacked the energy to voice it. He slumped back against Osiris's chest, exhausted from even that small effort.

Steven's body moved without conscious thought, burrowing deeper into Osiris's warmth. His fingers clutched weakly at the fabric of Osiris's shirt, desperate for an anchor as another wave of chills tore through him.

"Cold," he managed to croak out, the word barely intelligible.

"I know." Osiris shifted, pulling Steven more fully against his chest and arranging the blankets tighter around them. "Your body is fighting something. The fever will break."

Steven pressed his face into the crook of Osiris's neck, seeking warmth wherever he could find it. The god's skin radiated heat like a furnace, and Steven absorbed it greedily. His trembling began to ease again, though he still felt like he'd been dunked in ice water.

Osiris's hand came up to cradle the back of Steven's head, fingers threading through damp hair. The gesture was unbearably gentle, paternal in a way that made Steven's chest ache with something beyond physical pain.

"Rest now," Osiris murmured. "We'll talk later, when you're well."

But Steven didn't want to rest. Every time he closed his eyes, his dreams turned dark and twisted. Harrow's face appeared, followed by the suffocating pressure of sand filling his lungs. He jerked awake with a gasp, heart racing.

"Shh, none of that." Osiris's arms tightened protectively. "You're safe. Nothing will harm you here."

Steven's breathing hitched. He wanted to believe it, wanted to trust in the safety Osiris promised. But trust had never come easily to him, and vulnerability felt like standing naked on a battlefield.

"Sleep, Steven." Osiris's voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating against Steven's ear. "I'm not going anywhere."

The exhaustion pulled at him relentlessly, dragging him down despite his resistance. Steven's grip on Osiris's robes loosened as consciousness slipped away again, his body finally surrendering to what it desperately needed.

Warmth surrounded him. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Steven felt safe.

After some time, he surfaced to the sound of voices again, his body still trembling despite the warmth surrounding him. Everything felt distant, muffled, like he was underwater.

"Temperature check," Sekhmet's voice cut through the fog. "How long since the last one?"

"Three hours." Osiris shifted beneath Steven, careful not to jostle him. "He's been drifting in and out."

Cool air hit Steven's lower half as blankets were peeled back. He made a weak sound of protest, trying to curl tighter into Osiris's warmth, but firm hands stopped him.

"I know, little mortal. Just give me a moment."

Steven barely registered the clinical touch as Sekhmet moved his clothing aside. The thermometer pressed inside, cold and intrusive, but he lacked the energy to do more than whimper. His mind felt stuffed with cotton, thoughts slipping away before he could grasp them.

"Easy," Osiris murmured against his hair, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back while the other kept him still. "Almost done."

The thermometer beeped. Sekhmet withdrew it and Steven heard her making a thoughtful sound.

“Thirty nine point two. Down from before, but not enough." Fabric rustled as she covered him again, tucking the blankets back around his shaking form. "The fluids are helping. Keep pushing them."

"He fought me a bit on the last round."

"Then don't give him the option. You've dealt with stubborn mortals before."

Steven wanted to object to being called a child, but the words wouldn't form. His mouth moved soundlessly, another tremor wracking through him.

"There now." Osiris pulled him close again, that blessed warmth returning. "Back to sleep with you."

Sekhmet's fingers pressed against his wrist, counting his pulse. Steven's eyes cracked open just enough to see her frowning, her expression professional and detached as she worked.

"Blood results should be ready within the hour. I'll check back then." Her hand touched his forehead briefly. "Rest. Let your body heal. And if he refuses liquids again, we’re putting an IV in."

Steven's eyes slipped closed again. He felt Sekhmet's presence retreat, heard the door close with a soft click. Then just Osiris remained, solid and warm beneath him, one hand still tracing idle patterns against his spine.

"Sleep," Osiris commanded quietly. "That's all you need to do right now."

Steven obeyed, consciousness fading once more into fevered darkness.

He dreamed of Ammit again, of Harrow and his followers and how they marked him. Their fists on his jaw, the way they’d beaten him down and made him feel small. He wondered why Marc hadn’t taken over, but the American had been riding back seat for quite a while now, barely making contact except to comment on what he saw occasionally.

Kind of missed the blighter, if he were being honest. The dreams went in and out, spitting him out back into consciousness for short periods before pulling him back down into sleep for another round.

Finally he woke up, alert, more aware than he’d felt in days. He didn’t really know how long it had been but it felt like days at least. Steven looked around the room, taking in the same space he’d been living in since Osiris took custody of him.

He thought he was alone until he saw the form of Osiris sitting in the side chair by the bed, his eyes closed and fingers laced together on his lap. His breathing was even, steady.

Steven sat up, feeling that familiar pain in his ribs and a tug on his arm. An IV ran from his arm to a bag on a stand beside the bed, dripping liquids slowly into his system.

Steven's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the IV line snaking into his arm. His pulse kicked up, heart hammering against his bruised ribs. They'd drugged him. That's what this was. Sekhmet had put something in there to keep him compliant, to keep him quiet.

His fingers scrambled at the tape securing the needle, nails scraping against his skin. The adhesive pulled at the fine hairs on his arm but he didn't care. He needed it out, needed to get away.

"Stop that."

Steven's head snapped up. Osiris hadn't moved, but his eyes were open and his voice cut through the room with unmistakable authority.

"Get it out." Steven yanked harder at the tape, finally getting an edge loose. "I'm not- I don't need this. I'm fine."

"You had a fever of thirty nine point five.” Osiris said, fixing on Steven with an unreadable expression. "You are not fine."

"That's what you'd say if you wanted to keep me drugged." The tape came free. Steven wrapped his fingers around the catheter, ready to pull. "What's in it? What did she give me?"

"Saline. Electrolytes. Nothing sinister." Osiris stood, but didn't approach. "Steven, think for a moment."

Steven ripped the IV out.

Blood welled up from the puncture site, dripping down his arm. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the way the room tilted dangerously. His feet hit the floor and his knees immediately buckled.

Osiris moved then, crossing the distance between them in two strides. Steven lurched sideways, using the bed for support as he tried to put distance between them.

"Don't touch me." His voice came out thin, reedy. "I know what you're doing. You're all the same, you gods. You manipulate and control and- and keep people prisoner."

"Enough." Osiris caught his arm, his grip firm but not painful. "You're going to hurt yourself."

Steven twisted, trying to break free. His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges. The floor seemed to shift under his feet, gravity pulling in wrong directions.

“I’m not sick! You’re drugging me, you kidnapped me, you’re- you’re a kidnapper!” Steven's throat felt dry as sandpaper, his eyes heavy with fatigue. He could barely think, could barely move, but he knew he didn’t have a fever of thirty nine point five. They were lying to him."

You’re delirious.

“I am not delirious!” Steven snapped back. Of course Marc chose now of all times to poke at him.

“I never said you were,” Osiris said as he tried to push the man down to sit on the bed.

Steven realized his mistake too late. Osiris's eyes narrowed, that brief flash of confusion giving way to understanding.

"You weren't talking to me."

"I was." Steven's protest sounded weak even to his own ears. He tried again to pull free, but his strength had abandoned him. The room kept spinning, the floor and ceiling trading places. "Let go."

"Marc is there.” It wasn’t a question. Osiris's grip shifted to support rather than restrain, catching Steven under the arms as his legs gave out completely. “What is he saying?"

Tell him to shove that thermometer up his own ass and see how he likes it.

Steven's mouth quirked despite himself, a half-hysterical laugh bubbling up before he could stop it. "He says to- to shove the thermometer up your..."

He trailed off, realizing what he'd been about to repeat. The delirium made everything foggy, made his filter nonexistent. His head lolled against Osiris's shoulder as the god guided him back onto the bed with inexorable patience.

"I see Marc is feeling better than you are." Osiris lowered him down, one hand on his chest keeping him flat when Steven tried to rise. "Stay."

"Not a dog," Steven mumbled, but the fight had drained out of him. The ceiling swam above him, patterns shifting and morphing. His arm throbbed where he'd ripped the IV out, blood still trickling down to his elbow.

Osiris pressed something soft against the wound, applying pressure. "You've made quite a mess."

He's patronizing you.

"Stop helping," Steven whispered.

Osiris lifted Steven's arm, examining the damage. "You've torn the vein. Sekhmet will need to put it back in a different spot."

Panic flared again in Steven's chest, sharp and immediate. "No. No more needles. I don't- I can drink water, I'll drink whatever you want, just no more-"

"You ripped out the last one." Osiris's tone remained calm. "That privilege is gone."

"Please." The word cracked on the way out. Steven hated how desperate he sounded, how weak. But the thought of being restrained, of having another needle slid into his skin while he couldn't fight back, made his breathing hitch. "I'll be good, I promise, just-"

"Breathe." Osiris's free hand settled on Steven's forehead. "You're working yourself into a state."

He's right. You're spiraling.

Steven squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find his center. Everything felt wrong, untethered. His thoughts wouldn't connect properly, jumping from panic to exhaustion to confusion without warning.

“I’m not sick! No more thermometers, no more… no more needles!” Steven stammered.

Osiris's hand remained steady on Steven's forehead, his expression unreadable. "You are sick. Your fever spiked to dangerous levels. The IV stays."

"No." Steven tried to sit up again, but the hand on his chest pressed him back down with minimal effort. "You can't make me."

"I can." Osiris's voice dropped lower, taking on that tone Steven had learned meant business. "And I will, if necessary. You've proven you can't be trusted to take care of yourself."

He's got a point there, mate.

"Shut up, Marc," Steven hissed through gritted teeth. His vision blurred at the edges, exhaustion pulling at him despite the adrenaline still coursing through his system. "Both of you, just leave me alone."

"That's not happening." Osiris released Steven's arm, the bleeding finally stopped, and reached for something on the nightstand. A phone. "Sekhmet needs to know you've damaged the IV site."

"Don't call her.” Steven begged. "Please, I'll drink water, I'll do whatever you want, just don’t call her."

"This isn't a negotiation." Osiris pressed the phone to his ear, his other hand still keeping Steven pinned. "Sekhmet, he's awake. And he's pulled out the IV."

Steven could hear the muffled sound of her response, sharp and irritated even through the speaker. His stomach dropped.

"No, he's coherent enough to argue. Still feverish though." Osiris's eyes never left Steven's face. "He needs a new line placed."

You really stepped in it this time.

Steven's breathing quickened, shallow and rapid. The room spun faster, black spots creeping in from the periphery. He couldn't do this again, couldn't lie still while they stuck needles in him and pumped him full of whatever they wanted.

"He's panicking," Osiris said into the phone. "How soon can you get here?"

Steven tried one more time to twist away, to escape the inevitable. His body refused to cooperate, every muscle trembling with exhaustion and fever. Osiris ended the call and set the phone aside, both hands now free to keep Steven contained.

“Marc, take the body, take the body,” Steven whispered desperately.

Can't.

"What do you mean you can't?" Steven's voice pitched higher, desperation bleeding through every word. "You always- you're always shoving me aside, taking control, just do it now!"

I mean I can't. Whatever's wrong with you is affecting me too. I can barely hold a thought together.

Osiris's brow furrowed. "Steven, you need to calm down."

"No, no, no." Steven shook his head violently, immediately regretting it as the room tilted. "Marc won't front, he always fronts when things get bad, but he can't, which means something's really wrong with me and you're lying about what's in that IV!"

"Nothing is in the IV except what I told you." Osiris caught Steven's face between his hands, forcing eye contact. "Your body is fighting an illness. Marc is likely experiencing the same symptoms you are. That's all."

Steven's chest heaved with each breath, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. The logical part of his mind knew Osiris made sense, but logic had abandoned him somewhere between the fever and the panic.

"I want to go home," he whispered, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Please, I just want to go home."

Osiris's expression shifted, something that looked almost like pain flickering across his features before settling back into that careful neutrality. His hands remained cupped around Steven's face, thumbs brushing against feverish cheekbones.

"This is your home now."

"No." Steven's voice cracked. "My flat, I need to go back to my flat. I have work, I have responsibilities, I can't just stay here forever."

“Your flat is being looked after while you are under my care. I have someone feeding your fish every day.” He said calmly.

Steven's breath caught. "Gus? You're- someone's feeding Gus?"

"Every day." Osiris's thumbs continued their gentle movement. "I'm not a monster, Steven. I wouldn't let an innocent creature starve."

The fight drained out of Steven all at once, leaving him hollow and aching. His eyes burned, though whether from fever or unshed tears he couldn't tell. The mention of his goldfish, that tiny piece of normal life he'd left behind, cracked something in his chest.

"I miss him," Steven whispered. "I miss my flat and my books and my job at the museum gift shop, even though it was rubbish."

You had to go and rip the IV out, didn't you?

"Not now, Marc." Steven's voice came out barely above a whisper. The weight of Osiris's hands on his face felt both grounding and suffocating.

The door opened. Sekhmet strode in with her medical bag, her expression sharp as she took in the scene. Steven pinned to the bed, blood streaked down his arm, Osiris holding him in place.

"Well." She set her bag on the nightstand with a decisive thunk. "This is becoming a pattern."

"I don't need another one," Steven protested weakly, but his voice lacked conviction. Exhaustion pulled at every limb, made his thoughts sluggish and disconnected.

"You ripped out the last one." Sekhmet pulled on gloves with crisp, efficient movements. "So yes, you do."

Osiris released Steven's face but kept one hand on his shoulder, a clear message that escape wasn't an option. Steven watched Sekhmet unpack supplies. Tubing, tape, another needle that gleamed under the lamplight.

"Other arm," she said.

Steven tucked his good arm against his chest. "No."

"Steven." Osiris's warning tone rumbled through the room.

"I said I'd drink water! I'll drink whatever you want, just no more needles!" The words tumbled out desperate and frantic. His pulse hammered in his throat, heart racing as Sekhmet approached.

"The time for choices was before you damaged the first IV site." Sekhmet reached for his arm. "Now hold still."

Steven jerked away, or tried to. Osiris's grip tightened on his shoulder, pressing him flat against the mattress. His other hand caught Steven's wrist, extending the arm despite his struggles.

"Stop fighting," Osiris said quietly. "You're only making this harder."

Tears burned at the corners of Steven's eyes as Sekhmet tied the tourniquet around his bicep, her movements clinical and detached. She tapped at the crook of his elbow, searching for a vein.

"There we go." The alcohol swab was cold against his skin. "Deep breath."

Steven squeezed his eyes shut as the needle pierced his skin, sliding into the vein with a sharp sting. He bit down on his lip to keep from crying out, tasting copper.

"Done." Sekhmet taped the catheter in place, then wrapped his arm with additional securing. "Try ripping this one out and I'll restrain both arms to the bed rails."

Steven's eyes snapped open at the threat, meeting Sekhmet's unflinching gaze. She meant it. Every word.

"Understood?" She pulled off her gloves with sharp, decisive motions.

He managed a jerky nod, not trusting his voice. The new IV tugged at his arm as he shifted, a constant reminder of his failed escape attempt.

"Good." Sekhmet picked up her medical bag. "Temperature check. Roll over."

"What? No, you just-" Steven's protest died as Osiris's hand pressed against his shoulder, the message clear. "You've got to be joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Sekhmet pulled out the thermometer, already prepping it with a fresh cover. "Turn. Now."

Heat flooded Steven's face that had nothing to do with fever. “You’re a sadist."

“Your ribs should be healed enough that you can roll over. Or we can lift your legs, whichever you prefer,” Sekhmet said.

"You have no bedside manner," Steven muttered, but he rolled onto his side anyway, wincing as his ribs protested the movement. The pain had dulled since the beating, but it still caught him off guard.

That's because she's a warrior goddess first, healer second.

"Oh, brilliant observation, Marc. Real helpful." Steven pressed his face into the pillow, mortified as Sekhmet moved his clothing aside without ceremony.

Steven's entire body went rigid as the thermometer pressed inside, invasive and cold. He gritted his teeth, counting the seconds until the device beeped.

"Thirty nine point seven." Sekhmet withdrew it, already covering him back up. “That’s higher than last time."

"That's impossible." Osiris's hand tightened fractionally on Steven's shoulder. "He's been resting. The fluids should be helping."

"Well, they're not." Sekhmet disposed of the thermometer cover with a sharp snap. "Something else is going on. The blood work came back clean, no bacterial infection, no obvious viral markers."

Steven's chest constricted. Marc had gone quiet in his head, which meant even the alter was concerned. The room tilted again as he tried to process Sekhmet's words.

"Then what's causing it?" Osiris demanded.

"I don't know yet." Sekhmet pulled out her stethoscope, pressing the cold metal against Steven's back through his nightgown. "Breathe in. Deep as you can."

Steven obeyed, wincing as his ribs protested. The breath caught halfway, triggering a cough that sent fresh pain lancing through his chest. Sekhmet's expression darkened.

"Again."

He tried, but the cough returned, harder this time. His lungs burned with each hack, and he tasted something metallic at the back of his throat.

"Roll him onto his back," Sekhmet ordered.

Osiris complied, supporting Steven's weight as he moved. Steven's vision swam, black spots dancing across his field of view. The coughing fit continued, wracking his whole body.

"Steven, look at me." Sekhmet's face appeared above him, her fingers prying his mouth open. "Tongue out."

He couldn't speak through the coughing, could barely breathe. His chest felt like it was being crushed, each attempt to draw air more difficult than the last.

"Pneumonia." Sekhmet's voice cut through the haze. "It's settling in his lungs. That's why the fever keeps climbing."

"Can you treat it?" Osiris asked.

“Yes, thankfully. I can treat it.” Sekhmet said, sounding relieved.

Sekhmet rummaged through her medical bag, pulling out vials and a syringe. "Antibiotics. Strong ones. This should knock it back within forty-eight hours."

Steven's coughing subsided enough for him to gasp out, "No more needles."

"This one's going in your IV line, so congratulations on keeping that one intact." Sekhmet uncapped the syringe, drawing liquid from one of the vials. "Otherwise I'd have to jab you in the arse."

She really is a sadist.

Steven watched through bleary eyes as Sekhmet attached the syringe to his IV port. The medication burned as it entered his bloodstream, a cold fire spreading up his arm.

"That's normal," Sekhmet said before he could protest. "The burning will fade in a minute."

Osiris's hand remained on Steven's shoulder, anchoring him to the bed. Steven focused on that touch instead of the fire in his veins, counting his breaths until the sensation dulled to a manageable ache.

"He needs to stay on bed rest. Absolutely no getting up except to use the bathroom, and even then he's not going alone." Sekhmet packed away her supplies. "The pneumonia is mild right now, but it can turn severe quickly if not treated properly."

"I'll stay with him." Osiris said it like a promise, immovable and certain.

"Good." Sekhmet snapped her bag shut. "Temperature checks every four hours. If it goes above forty, call me immediately. I'll be back tomorrow morning to check his progress."

Steven wanted to protest, wanted to argue that he didn't need to have temperature checks every four hours or to be watched every second of the day, but a cough stopped him.

"Rest now," Sekhmet ordered, her hand briefly touching his forehead. "Let the medication work."

The door closed behind her, leaving Steven alone with Osiris. The god settled into the chair beside the bed, his expression unreadable in the dim lamplight.

"I'm not going to apologize for pulling out the IV," Steven croaked, his throat raw from coughing.

"I didn't expect you to." Osiris leaned back, crossing his arms. "But you will learn to trust me. Eventually."

Steven turned his face away, staring at the wall. The medication made his head fuzzy, thoughts slipping away before he could grasp them. Sleep pulled at him, heavy and insistent.

"I miss Gus," he whispered into the pillow.

Osiris's hand returned to his shoulder, warm and steady. "I know."

[rosesofred7]

Recovery ch. 13

Artist/Author: rosesofred  Title: Recovery Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU Summary:   Notes & Warnings:  Links: Masterlist Part 12 Part 14

Steven woke to the sound of talking. Not the soothing ASMR-esque business droning that he’d fallen asleep to, but more hushed and urgent. He opened his eyes, lifting his head to peer over his chest and see who was talking.

Gamila, or rather Sekhmet, stood near the foot of the bed holding her medical bag, speaking in a near whisper. “For his own good. It’s more accurate that way. He’s burning up."

“Very well. I’ll help you roll him over.” Osiris said with a sigh.

Steven's brain caught up with what they'd said just as Osiris's hands settled on his shoulder. "Wait, what?"

"Shh, you're alright." Osiris's voice rumbled with that particular tone that brooked no argument. "We need to check your temperature properly."

"No." Steven tried to roll away, but Osiris held him in place easily. "I'm fine. The forehead thing works just fine."

"The forehead scan shows you're running hot, but we need an accurate reading." Sekhmet set her bag down on the bed, pulling out what looked distressingly like a thermometer. "This will only take a moment."

Steven's face burned hotter than any fever. "Absolutely not. I'm an adult, I don't need a- a thermometer shoved up there!"

"You are ill and under my care." Osiris's grip tightened just slightly. "Which means you'll cooperate with the physician. Now, you can make this easy or difficult, but the outcome remains the same."

“I’m not even feverish! I’m really quite cold,” Steven argued.

"That's because you have a fever." Sekhmet moved closer, her expression sympathetic but firm. "Your body's thermostat is confused. The chills are a symptom, not proof you're fine."

Steven grabbed the blankets, pulling them up to his chest like a shield. "I don't consent to this."

"You lost the right to make medical decisions for yourself when you neglected your health to this degree." Osiris's hand remained steady on Steven's shoulder. "Roll over."

"This is medieval! Barbaric!" Steven's voice pitched higher. "There are other ways to take temperatures. Oral, under the arm, with a scanner thing…"

"Which are less accurate when dealing fever." Sekhmet pulled back the covers before Steven could stop her. "Your body temperature regulation is compromised. We need precise numbers to know how to proceed."

Steven tried to sit up, but Osiris pressed him back down with one hand. Not roughly, but with enough force that resistance proved pointless.

They tried to roll him over but Steven gasped in pain, wincing as his eyes squeezed shut. Sekhmet paused, taking in the sight of her injured patient. They couldn’t roll him onto his stomach with his ribs still healing.

Sekhmet exchanged a glance with Osiris, then set the thermometer on the nightstand. "On second thought, given the rib damage, we'll need to do this a different way."

"Thank you," Steven breathed out, relief flooding through him.

"Don't celebrate yet." She said, pulling out a tube of what looked like lube. “We’ll lift his legs up, flat on his back. That will likely be the least painful."

Steven's brief moment of victory evaporated. "What?"

Sekhmet raised an eyebrow. "Your ribs make lying on your stomach impossible, so we'll work with what we have. Lay flat, now."

"This is ridiculous." Steven looked to Osiris, hoping for an ally, but found only an implacable expression.

"The more you argue, the longer this takes." Osiris shifted his grip, already beginning to guide Steven onto his back. "And the more uncomfortable you make yourself."

Steven's face burned as they positioned him, Osiris supporting his weight to keep pressure off the damaged ribs. The blankets disappeared entirely now, leaving him exposed in nothing but his nightgown.

"I hate both of you," Steven muttered to himself.

"You'll survive the indignity." Sekhmet's voice held a note of amusement as she prepared. "I've done this countless times. You're not special."

"That doesn't make it better!"

Sekhmet picked up the thermometer, spreading lube around the tip of it. “If you’ll lift his legs,” she said.

Osiris then grabbed Steven's legs under his knees, gently lifting them up to his chest and exposing his butt.

Steven's breath caught as humiliation crashed over him. The nightgown pooled around his waist, leaving him completely exposed in a way that made every nerve ending scream with embarrassment. He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face away.

"Deep breath," Sekhmet instructed, her tone clinical and detached. "Tension makes this worse."

"Easy for you to say," Steven ground out through clenched teeth. His hands fisted in the sheets beneath him.

The cool touch of the lubricant made him jolt despite Osiris's steady grip on his legs. Sekhmet worked quickly, her movements clinical and impersonal. Steven felt the pressure of the thermometer, the invasive slide of it past the ring of muscle that clenched involuntarily.

"Relax," Osiris murmured, squeezing Steven’s knees slightly in what might have been meant as comfort. "Fighting it only prolongs the discomfort."

Steven wanted to snap back that being told to relax while someone violated his dignity ranked among the least helpful advice ever given, but the words died in his throat. The thermometer settled into place, and Sekhmet's hand pressed against his skin to hold it steady.

"Thirty seconds," she announced.

Those thirty seconds stretched into an eternity. Steven kept his eyes squeezed shut, refusing to look anyone in the eye while he was being manhandled and violated. Anything to distract from the mortifying reality of his position. Legs held up like a baby getting changed, exposed to two ancient deities who seemed utterly unbothered by his humiliation.

"Almost done," Sekhmet said.

The seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness. Steven's face burned hotter than any fever could account for. He'd excavated tombs, deciphered ancient texts, explored the tomb of Alexander the Great, but nothing in his life had prepared him for this.

The soft beep of the thermometer felt like salvation.

"There we are." Sekhmet withdrew the device gently, already reading the display before Steven could even process the relief. “Thirty eight point one Celsius. Definite fever, but not dangerously high yet."

Osiris lowered Steven's legs back to the bed carefully, pulling the nightgown back down to cover him. The blankets followed quickly after.

Steven curled up the moment he was released, pulling the blankets tight around himself like armor. He wanted to disappear.

That was kind of fucked, Marc said in his head.

Kind of? Steven shot back mentally, his entire body still trembling with residual humiliation. That was completely fucked.

"The fever explains the confusion and disorientation." Sekhmet cleaned the thermometer, tucking it back into her bag. "We'll need to monitor it closely. If it climbs higher, we'll need to intervene more aggressively."

"No more interventions," Steven muttered into the pillow he'd pulled over his face. "Just let me die of embarrassment."

Sekhmet pulled out a small vial from her bag, uncorking it to release a pungent herbal scent. "Willow bark extract. It will help with both the fever and the pain from your ribs."

Steven peeked out from behind the pillow. "Does it taste awful?"

"Spectacularly." She poured a measure into a small cup. "But you'll drink it anyway."

"At least you're honest.” Steven mumbled, but he had no intention of taking any medicine offered to him by the same god who’d just humiliated him. Clearly she wasn’t a good healer or she would’ve found a better way to check his temperature, he told himself.

Yeah I agree, Marc said.

Osiris settled onto the edge of the bed, taking the cup from Sekhmet. "I'll handle this."

"Good luck." Sekhmet packed up her bag. "I'll return in a few hours to check on him. Keep him hydrated, and if the fever spikes above thirty nine point five, send for me immediately."

"Understood."

The door closed behind her, leaving Steven alone with Osiris and the terrible-smelling medicine. He burrowed deeper into the blankets.

"Steven." Osiris's voice held that warning tone. "Look at me."

"No."

"That wasn't a request."

Steven turned his head just enough to glare from beneath the pillow. "You just let her- let her do that."

"Check your temperature, yes." Osiris held the cup steady. "Because you're ill and need proper medical care, which you've clearly denied yourself for far too long."

"There were other ways."

"Less accurate ways." Osiris set the cup on the nightstand, reaching out to remove the pillow from Steven's death grip. "And given your track record with taking care of yourself, we need accurate information."

Steven clutched the pillow tighter. “I don’t trust anything she wants to give me. I don’t have a fever."

"You're burning up, shivering under three blankets, and the thermometer doesn't lie." Osiris pried the pillow away despite Steven's resistance. "Drink the medicine."

"No."

"Steven."

"I said no!" Steven yanked the blankets over his head. "You can't make me."

Osiris's hand closed around Steven's the blankets, ready to rip them off. "Would you like to test that theory?"

Steven's heart hammered against his ribs, the broken ones protesting the spike in his pulse. He'd already been humiliated once today. His dignity couldn't take another hit.

Osiris pulled the blankets down, revealing Steven's flushed, weary face. "But you'll still drink the medicine."

The cup appeared in front of Steven's mouth, the herbal smell making his stomach turn. He pressed his lips together.

"Open."

Steven shook his head.

Osiris took Steven's jaw in his hand, forcing his mouth open. “That wasn’t a request.” Then he poured the medicine in, making sure none of it spilled.

The bitter liquid hit Steven's tongue and he immediately tried to spit it out, but Osiris's hand clamped over his mouth.

"Swallow."

Steven thrashed, eyes watering from the acrid taste that coated his mouth. The willow bark extract burned down his throat. He tried to turn his head away, but Osiris held firm.

"Don't make me pinch your nose shut too."

The threat worked. Steven's throat convulsed as he swallowed the medicine, gagging on the aftertaste that lingered like a punishment. Osiris released him and he immediately rolled to the side, coughing and sputtering despite the shrieking pain in his ribs.

"Water," Steven croaked out between coughs.

Osiris handed him a glass without comment. Steven grabbed it with shaking hands, gulping down the cool liquid to wash away the revolting flavor. It barely helped.

"That was disgusting," Steven rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You're horrible for forcing that down my throat."

"You brought this on yourself." Osiris set the empty cup aside. “You likely caught whatever you’re battling from one of Arthur’s followers."

Steven sank back against the pillows, exhausted from the brief struggle. The medicine left a coating of bitterness on his tongue that the water couldn't quite wash away.

"I didn't ask to be dragged before the Ennead," he muttered, pulling the blankets back up to his chin. "I was perfectly fine minding my own business."

"You were neglecting yourself to the point of collapse." Osiris stood, collecting the empty glass and medicine cup. "Now that you don’t have Khonshu’s voice demanding you work yourself to death, that ends now."

"So instead you’re going to keep my here against my will?" Steven's voice came out sharper than intended, the fever making his tongue loose. "Some improvement.” He didn’t know where all this confidence was coming from but maybe the fact that he knew Osiris wouldn’t punish him until he was better made him feel a little more invincible than normal.

Osiris paused. "Watch your tone."

"Or what? You'll spank me again?" The words tumbled out before Steven could stop them. "Hold me down and humiliate me further? Because that's worked so well."

The air in the room shifted. Osiris turned slowly, his expression darkening in a way that made Steven's stomach drop. He'd pushed too far. The fever had loosened his filter, let the resentment and embarrassment spill out unchecked.

"I understand you're ill and upset." Osiris's voice dropped to that low, dangerous register. "But you will not speak to me that way."

Steven opened his mouth to apologize, but his pride wouldn't let the words form. He looked away instead, jaw clenched.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

"No."

The glass and cup clinked as Osiris set them down on the dresser with deliberate care. Steven swallowed hard.

"Steven."

He kept his gaze fixed on the wall, the pattern of the hieroglyphics suddenly fascinating. Anywhere but meeting those intimidating eyes that could probably see straight through his defenses.

Osiris's hand caught his chin, firm but not painful, turning his head until their eyes met. "When you're feeling better, we're going to have a conversation about respect and consequences. But for now, you're going to rest."

"Don't want to," Steven said, though the words came out weak. The medicine was already making his limbs heavy, his eyelids fighting to stay open.

"Sleep." Osiris released his chin, pulling the blankets higher. "We'll discuss your attitude later."

Steven wanted to object but he felt so cold. He shivered as he sank into the blankets, wishing he had more to curl up under.

“I’ll bring you more blankets,” Osiris said as though reading his thoughts.

Osiris returned moments later with an armful of thick wool blankets. Steven watched through half-lidded eyes as the god layered them over him, tucking the edges in with surprising gentleness.

"Better?" Osiris asked.

Steven nodded, teeth chattering despite the added warmth. The fever had his body confused, sending contradictory signals that left him miserable. He felt simultaneously frozen and overheated, his skin clammy under the multiple layers.

"Get some sleep." Osiris settled into the chair beside the bed, clearly intending to stay.

"You don't have to watch me," Steven muttered. "I'm not going anywhere."

"No, you're not." The agreement held no room for argument. "Which is why I'll be staying right here."

Steven's eyes tracked Osiris's movements as the god picked up his laptop, resuming whatever business required his attention. The soft glow of the screen cast shadows across his face, making him look both ancient and oddly modern at once.

"I don't need a babysitter."

"You need someone to ensure you don't do something foolish the moment you think no one's watching." Osiris didn't look up from the screen. "Given your track record, constant supervision seems warranted."

Steven wanted to protest, to defend himself, but the medicine was pulling him under. His eyelids grew heavier with each blink, the warmth of the blankets finally penetrating the fever chills.

Just rest, Marc's voice whispered through their shared consciousness. Fight him later when you're not half-dead.

I'm not half-dead, Steven thought back, but even that felt like too much effort.

The last thing he registered before sleep claimed him was Osiris's presence beside the bed, solid and unchanging. Some distant part of his mind found comfort in that, though he'd never admit it aloud.

His dreams fragmented into fever-induced nonsense. Flashes of concrete halls, the weight of Harrow's hands, the thermometer, medicine being forced down his throat. He thrashed weakly under the blankets, caught between waking and sleeping, his body fighting a cold he didn’t know he had.

Through it all, Osiris remained.

[rosesofred7]

Recovery ch. 12

Artist/Author: rosesofred  Title: Recovery Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU Summary:   Notes & Warnings:  Links: Masterlist Part 11 Part 13

Sunlight poured in through the window, draping the bed in rays of warm light. Steven groaned, rolling onto his side. His eyes shot open as one of his ribs protested, the bruises and possible fracture causing him to suck in a sharp breath of air. Slowly he sat up, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

That’s right, he was in the Duat again. He looked around the room, spotting Isis sitting in the chair Osiris usually occupied. She was busy typing on a laptop, writing something apparently very important.

“You’re up, good.” She said without looking up from the screen.

Her fingers moved, typing as she spoke.

“You’re in a heap of trouble, young man. Osiris is going to have some words with you."

Steven bristled, taking in the ominous threat. He wondered how hard Osiris would be on him while he was still injured or if he’d get a pass for being hurt.

Steven's stomach twisted. The dull ache in his ribs suddenly felt sharper, more present. He shifted against the headboard, trying to find a position that didn't hurt.

"What kind of words?"

Isis glanced up from the laptop, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. Her expression held no sympathy.

"The kind that involve you explaining why you thought it was acceptable to escape protective custody, go straight towards the man we told you to let us handle, and get yourself beaten half to death. Tawaret was beside herself when she discovered you two missing."

Guilt churned in his stomach. He didn’t feel great about making Tawaret upset, she seemed like a nice person who just wanted to take care of people. He didn’t mean to hurt her, it was just more important that he get the ushabti and stop Harrow, that was all.

"I had to get the ushabti before Harrow did," Steven said, pulling his knees up gingerly. The movement sent another spike of pain through his torso. "Someone had to stop him."

"Someone." Isis closed the laptop with a soft click. "Not you. We specifically told you to stay put while we handled Arthur Harrow."

"But you weren't handling him fast enough."

Isis's voice remained calm, which somehow made it worse. "Steven, we've been dealing with Harrow for months, containing his movements, limiting his reach. You think we weren't aware of the ushabti?"

Steven's mouth went dry. He hadn’t considered that the gods were tracking him.

"The ushabti was bait." Isis stood, setting the laptop on the chair. She moved to the window, her white linen dress catching the sunlight. "We knew Harrow would go for it eventually. We were waiting for him to actually commit an offense so we could lawfully take care of him. We can’t punish an innocent man."

"I didn't know…"

"Exactly." She turned to face him, arms crossed. "You didn't know. You don't know our plans, our strategies, what we've set in motion. Yet you decided that you knew better than the gods. And your caretaker."

Steven frowned. He hadn’t really considered Osiris his caretaker up until now but he guessed the title fit. The god was taking care of him.

Steven pulled at a loose thread on the blanket, unable to meet her eyes. The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. His mind raced through justifications, but each one crumbled before he could voice it.

"Marc wanted to go," he tried. "I just went along with his plan."

Isis's tone sharpened. "Don't you dare try to deflect blame onto Marc. You made your own choice to follow him. You could have stayed put. You could have come to us. Instead, you chose to sneak out."

Steven's cheeks burned. She was right, of course. He'd known it was risky, known Osiris had told him to stay, but he'd done it anyway.

"I thought I was helping."

“Well now you get to face the consequences of your actions,” Isis said sternly. She took a deep breath, letting out a long sigh to gather herself. “Stay put. I need to go wake Osiris. He was up for days searching for Harrow’s compound, you know.” Then she turned and left, footsteps echoing down the hall.

Steven stared at the closed door, his heart hammering against his bruised ribs. The pain from the movement barely registered compared to the dread pooling in his stomach. He'd never been in trouble like this before. Not with gods, anyway. With his own parents growing up, sure, but his mom had never even spanked him. He felt Marc bristle inside his head at that thought, like even the idea of that made him tense. Steven wondered why.

He pressed his palm against his side, feeling the tender skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. Someone had changed his clothes while he was unconscious. The thought made him uncomfortable, but he pushed it aside. Bigger problems loomed on the horizon.

Minutes crawled by. Steven counted the tiles on the ceiling. Thirty six across, forty two down. Then he gave up and counted the threads in the blanket instead. His hands trembled slightly. He told himself it was from the pain, not nerves.

Finally he heard footsteps approaching from the hallway. Heavy ones this time, accompanied by Isis's lighter tread. Steven's spine went rigid.

The door swung open. Osiris filled the doorway, still wearing his sleep clothes, hair disheveled from rest. But his eyes were alert, fixed on Steven with an intensity that made the younger man shrink back against the headboard.

Osiris stepped fully into the room. Isis followed, closing the door behind her with a soft click that sounded far too final for Steven's liking.

"Do you have any idea," Osiris began, his tone measured and dangerously calm, "what could have happened to you? What did happen to you?"

Steven opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

"Answer me."

"I... I got hurt. But I'm okay now."

"You got hurt." Osiris repeated the words slowly, deliberately. "You have broken ribs, Steven. Bruises covering half your body. A concussion. Sekhmet said you're lucky Harrow didn't puncture a lung."

Steven swallowed hard. He hadn't realized how bad it actually was. His ribs hurt, sure, but a punctured lung? That sounded serious.

"I didn't mean to."

Osiris crossed his arms, his broad frame blocking most of the light from the window. "Which part exactly didn't you mean to do? Run from the Duat, go straight to Harrow, or risk your life?"

The words stung more than Steven expected. He picked at the blanket again, unable to maintain eye contact.

"I was trying to help stop Harrow."

"By putting yourself in danger." Osiris moved closer to the bed. "After I explicitly told you to stay with Tawaret. After I explained that we would handle it."

"But Marc said-"

"Marc is getting his own consequences, trust me." Osiris's jaw tightened. "Right now we're talking about your choices. Your decision to sneak out and ignore my instructions."

Steven's chest constricted, and not just from the broken ribs. Shame crept up his neck, hot and uncomfortable. He'd genuinely thought he was doing the right thing at the time. Stopping Harrow seemed more important than following rules.

"I didn't think you'd actually care that much," Steven mumbled.

The room fell silent. Even Isis, who'd been standing quietly by the window, shifted her weight.

"You didn't think I'd care." Osiris repeated the words slowly, like he was testing their weight. "You didn't think I'd care that my son put himself in mortal danger? That his avatar could have died? Or that my charge could’ve been beaten to death?"

“Anubis was just helping,” Steven tried. “And… and I was just…” He tried to find the words but they got lost in his throat, tight and tense.

Osiris held up a hand, cutting off Steven's stammering explanation.

"The moment you're healed," he said, his voice dropping to that dangerously quiet register that made Steven's stomach flip, "we're going to have a proper discussion about following instructions. One you won't enjoy."

Steven's throat tightened again. The implication hung heavy in the air between them.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Osiris leaned forward, planting both hands on the footboard of the bed, "that you're going to learn there are consequences for putting yourself in danger. For ignoring direct orders meant to keep you safe."

Heat crept up Steven's neck. He shifted against the headboard, wincing as his ribs protested. His heart hammered, palms growing clammy against the sheets.

"That's not fair! I was trying to help!"

"Fair?" Osiris straightened to his full height. "What's not fair is Tawaret crying because she thought she'd lost you both. What's not fair is Isis and I searching for two days straight, terrified we'd find your corpse."

Steven hadn't thought about it from their perspective. He'd been so focused on stopping Harrow, on doing something useful for once in his life, that he hadn't considered what his absence would do to them.

"I didn't mean for any of that,” he said in a small voice.

"But you did." Isis spoke up from her spot by the window. Her tone carried less heat than Osiris's but no less firmness. "Intent doesn't erase impact, Steven. You made a choice. Now you'll face the results of that choice."

Steven looked between them, searching for any sign of softening. He found none.

"How long until I'm healed?"

"Sekhmet said three days with her accelerated treatment." Osiris straightened his sleep shirt. "So you have three days to think about what you've done. I suggest you use that time wisely."

He turned and left without another word. Isis followed, pausing only to give Steven one last meaningful look before closing the door.

Steven slumped back against the pillows, his ribs aching almost as much as the knot of dread in his stomach.

Steven stared at the ceiling, counting the minutes by his own heartbeat. Each thud reminded him of the conversation, of Osiris's expression, of the promise hanging over his head like a blade.

Minutes passed by before the door opened again without warning.

Osiris stepped inside, dressed now in dark linen trousers and a cream-colored shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He carried a tray laden with food. Eggs, fruit, flatbread, and what looked like honey.

"Sit up properly," Osiris said, setting the tray on the bedside table.

Steven shifted gingerly, every movement sending fresh protests through his ribcage. He managed to prop himself against the headboard, breathing carefully through the pain.

"I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask if you were hungry." Osiris placed the tray across Steven's lap, the legs settling on either side of him. "Sekhmet said you need to eat to heal properly. You will not like my methods of making you eat if you refuse."

Steven glared at the tray, his stomach churning with anxiety rather than hunger. The eggs looked perfectly prepared, golden and fluffy, but the thought of eating made his throat close up.

"I said I'm not hungry."

Osiris pulled the chair closer to the bed, settling into it with deliberate slowness. Then he grabbed Steven by the arm, pulling him up and out of bed. He was gentle enough but the movement still made Steven wince as he was pulled out of bed to stand.

His movements were clumsy, uncoordinated as he stumbled and wobbled on his legs. Then an arm came around his waist and pulled him down to sit on Osiris’s knee. It only took a moment for Steven to realize what was happening before heat flushed up his neck to his ears.

Without hesitation Osiris picked up the fork and scooped up some eggs, bringing it to his charge’s mouth. “Open."

Steven clenched his jaw, refusing to part his lips. The humiliation of being spoon-fed like a toddler burned hotter than any physical pain. He turned his head away, but Osiris's free hand came up to cup his chin, firm but not rough.

"We can do this the easy way or the difficult way," Osiris said, his tone surprisingly patient. "But one way or another, you're eating this breakfast."

"I'm not a child."

"Then stop acting like one." The fork remained steady at his lips. "Children throw tantrums instead of taking care of themselves. Adults eat when they need to heal."

Steven's stomach twisted. Marc stirred in the back of his mind, oddly quiet for once. No snarky commentary, no angry protests. Just watching.

“Alright, fine. I’ll feed myself, yeah?” He made a grab for the fork but Osiris pulled it away from his reach.

“You had your chance to obey. No more chances. From now on, disobedience will be dealt with swiftly and immediately. No more games, Steven. I expect you to obey the first time, not after threats and consequences."

Osiris brought the fork up to his mouth again, waiting for Steven to comply and open up.

Steven's face burned. His jaw ached from clenching it so tight, but the fork remained at his lips, unwavering. Osiris waited with the patience of someone who had all the time in the world.

The seconds stretched. Steven's ribs throbbed. His pride screamed at him to refuse, to maintain what little dignity he had left. But the steady weight of Osiris's hand on his back, the calm certainty in those fatherly eyes, wore down his resistance like water on stone.

He parted his lips.

The eggs slid onto his tongue, warm and buttery. Osiris withdrew the fork, watching as Steven chewed slowly, mechanically. The food tasted like rubber in his mouth, though some distant part of him recognized it was probably delicious.

"Good." Osiris's thumb brushed against Steven's spine, a small gesture of approval. "See? Much easier when you cooperate."

Steven swallowed hard, the food settling heavy in his stomach. Before he could catch his breath, another forkful appeared at his lips. This time he opened without resistance, his jaw loose and humiliated.

They continued in silence. Fork to mouth, chew, swallow. Repeat. Osiris alternated between the eggs and fruit, occasionally tearing off small pieces of flatbread drizzled with honey. Each bite felt like swallowing his pride along with the food.

Marc finally stirred in his mind, the presence uncomfortable and tense. This is fucked up.

I know, Steven thought back miserably.

Just eat the damn food so he stops.

As if Steven wasn't already doing exactly that. The fork kept coming, steady and relentless. Osiris's expression remained neutral, neither angry nor particularly gentle. Just determined.

"Almost done," Osiris murmured when the plate was nearly empty. "Just a bit more."

Steven's stomach felt overfull, stretched tight with more food than he'd eaten in weeks. Maybe months, aside from those days when he’d been in the sanctuary before his escape. He couldn't remember the last time he’d felt so full. The realization must have shown on his face because Osiris's jaw tightened.

"This is why you need looking after," Osiris said quietly, offering the last piece of fruit. "You don't even take care of basic necessities."

Steven accepted the final bite, chewing slowly. When he swallowed, Osiris set the fork down and reached for the cup of water on the tray.

"Drink."

Steven took the cup himself this time, grateful for even that small measure of autonomy. The water soothed his throat, washing down the lingering taste of honey and shame.

When he finished, Osiris took the cup and set it aside. The tray followed, placed back on the bedside table. Steven remained perched on Osiris's knee, uncertain whether he was allowed to move yet. His bladder, full from all that water, began to protest.

"I need to use the loo," Steven mumbled, shifting uncomfortably.

Osiris stood, bringing Steven up with him. His hand remained firmly on Steven's arm as they crossed the room. Steven's face burned hotter with each step toward the adjoining bathroom. Surely Osiris wouldn't actually follow him inside. That would be completely mortifying.

The god opened the bathroom door and guided Steven through it.

"I can manage on my own, thanks," Steven said, trying to pull his arm free.

Osiris's grip didn't loosen. "You're not to be trusted on your own right now. Not after what you pulled."

"You can't be serious." Steven's voice cracked slightly. "I'm just using the toilet. What do you think I'm going to do, climb out the window?"

Osiris raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't put it past you."

Steven opened his mouth to protest, but the pressure in his bladder cut off any argument. His ribs ached from standing too long. Pride warred with physical necessity, and necessity won.

"Fine. Whatever. Just turn around at least."

Osiris didn’t move. His posture screamed that he wasn't budging an inch further than that.

Regardless, Steven shuffled to the toilet, his movements stiff from embarrassment and pain. His hands trembled slightly as he fumbled with his nightgown. The simple act of relieving himself felt like it took an eternity with Osiris standing mere feet away, a silent sentinel.

The flush sounded deafening in the small space. Steven washed his hands at the sink, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and one of his eyes was covered in bruises. He looked exactly like what he was. Someone who'd gotten the shit kicked out of him.

Osiris's reflection appeared behind his in the mirror, his expression unreadable.

"Done?" the god asked.

Steven nodded, not trusting his voice. Osiris's hand returned to his arm, guiding him back toward the bed with that same firm gentleness that made Steven's skin crawl with helpless frustration.

He stumbled along, trying to keep up with the god as he was led to the bed and then tucked in.

Osiris settled back into the chair beside the bed, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. He pulled out his phone, typing something quickly before setting it on the armrest.

"You're staying?" Steven asked, pulling the blanket up to his chest.

"Did you think I'd leave you unsupervised after your little stunt?" Osiris leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee. "No. You're not to be left alone until I decide you can be trusted again."

Steven's jaw clenched. The idea of being watched constantly, like some criminal, made his skin prickle with irritation. But he bit back the protest forming on his tongue. He'd learned enough this morning to know arguing would get him nowhere.

Minutes passed in uncomfortable silence. Steven stared at the ceiling tiles again, counting them for the third time. Osiris remained perfectly still, his presence a constant weight in Steven's peripheral vision.

A soft knock broke the quiet. Isis entered without waiting for permission, carrying a sleek laptop under one arm.

"Your work." She handed it to Osiris, then turned her attention to Steven. "How are the ribs?"

"Fine," Steven muttered.

"Liar." Isis's lips quirked slightly. "Sekhmet will be by this evening to check on you. Behave until then."

Steven bristled but said nothing. Isis swept out as gracefully as she'd entered, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Osiris opened the laptop, the screen casting a pale glow across his features. His fingers moved across the keyboard, eyes scanning whatever documents Selim needed to review.

Steven watched him work, the gentle tapping filling the silence. Business reports, probably. Or archaeological permits. Selim ran some sort of legitimate operation topside, though Steven had never bothered learning the details.

“You get wifi in the Duat?” Steven asked.

Osiris didn't look up from the screen. “It works differently down here. But yes, we have internet."

"Right. Silly question."

The tapping continued. Steven shifted against the pillows, trying to find a position that didn't make his ribs scream. Every movement sent sharp reminders of what happened when he royally messed up.

"How long are you planning to sit there?"

"As long as necessary." Osiris scrolled through whatever document held his attention. "I have plenty of work to catch up on after spending two days searching for you."

The guilt twisted deeper. Steven pulled at a thread on the blanket, watching it unravel slightly. Marc remained quiet in the back of his mind, which was somehow worse than his usual commentary.

"I really was trying to help."

"I know." Osiris finally glanced up, his expression softening just slightly. "That doesn't make it acceptable. Good intentions don't erase poor decisions. Harrow is no longer your concern." The firmness returned to Osiris's tone. "He's been dealt with. Your involvement in this matter is over."

Steven's stomach clenched. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing he didn't deserve." Osiris returned his attention to the laptop. "And nothing you need to worry about. Your job now is to heal and reflect on why you're in this situation."

The dismissal stung more than Steven expected. He'd risked everything to stop Harrow, gotten beaten half to death, and now he was being treated like an inconvenience.

“Now quiet. I have a meeting I cannot reschedule."

“Oh, like here? Zoom?” Steven asked before Osiris held up a hand to silence him.

Steven clamped his mouth shut, sinking deeper into the pillows. Osiris adjusted the laptop screen, tilting it to frame himself properly. A few clicks later, faces appeared on the display. Voices filtered through the speakers, professional and clipped.

"Mr. Hossam, good to see you."

"Apologies for my delayed response to this meeting," Osiris said, his voice shifting into something more formal. Businesslike. "I had a family emergency that required my immediate attention."

"Nothing serious, I hope?"

"It's been handled." Osiris leaned back slightly, the chair creaking. "Now, shall we discuss the permits for the Alexandria excavation?"

Steven watched from his position in bed, fascinated despite himself. Osiris transformed before his eyes. Gone was the stern father figure who'd just spoon-fed him breakfast. In his place sat a composed executive, navigating bureaucratic discussions with practiced ease.

Papers shuffled on the other end of the call. Someone mentioned soil samples. Another voice chimed in about ground-penetrating radar results. Osiris nodded along, occasionally jotting notes on a pad that appeared from somewhere.

"The cultural ministry approved phase two," a woman's voice announced. "But they want additional documentation on artifact preservation protocols."

"Send me the requirements. I'll have my team compile everything by Friday."

The conversation droned on. Permits, budgets, timelines. Steven's eyelids grew heavy despite the discomfort in his ribs. The professional jargon blurred together into white noise, oddly soothing in its monotony.

He caught himself starting to drift, jerking awake when his head lolled to the side. Osiris glanced at him briefly, one eyebrow raised, before returning his attention to the screen.

“-revised estimate for the storage facility?"

"Three hundred thousand, give or take." Osiris pulled up what looked like a spreadsheet. "The itemized breakdown is in the shared drive."

More discussion. More numbers. Steven's eyes slipped closed again, the pain medication Sekhmet had given him earlier pulling him toward sleep. The voices faded to a distant murmur, Osiris's steady responses anchoring him as consciousness slipped away.

The last thing he registered was the warmth of the blanket tucked around him and the quiet authority in Osiris's tone as he spoke to his colleagues.

[rosesofred7]

Putnam Psychiatric Hospital ch. 11 - Ending

Artist/Author: rosesofred  Title: Putnam Psychiatric Hospital Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU, original story Summary:  Notes & Warnings: Links:

Isaac held Jumper tight in one hand, his bag in his other. He waited patiently, eagerly for his brother to show up. He’d gotten the feeding tube removed and eaten a full day of meals. Well, half meals. But it was still something. He’d eaten half of everything he’d been given and he was doing a lot better. He looked at the clock again, wondering why his brother was running late today.

Finally the nurse called him over and told Isaac he had a visitor. He practically sprinted into the visitor’s area, running to his brother for a hug.

David made an exaggerated huffing noise when Isaac slammed into his chest, wrapping his little brother up in a strong hug. “Look at you, got your feeding tube out and everything. How are you feeling?” David sat down at the table, Isaac sitting across from him. He balanced Jumper on his lap, holding the bunny with one arm wrapped around it. “

“Better. I’m eating every meal and taking my meds.”

David studied his brother's face, noting the slight colour that had returned to his cheeks. The dark circles under Isaac's eyes had faded, though they hadn't disappeared entirely. Progress, though. Real progress.

"That's great to hear. Dr. Martinez and Dr. Harrow say you've been cooperating with the treatment plan."

Isaac nodded, stroking Jumper's soft ears. "When can I come home?"

The question hung between them. David had been dreading it, knowing Isaac would ask eventually. He'd spoken with Dr. Harrow yesterday, learning that Isaac still had weeks left in his treatment program.

"Soon, buddy. But you need to focus on getting completely better first."

"I am better." Isaac's voice came out more frustrated than he’d meant it to. "I'm eating, I'm taking the pills, I haven't had any episodes in days."

David reached across the table, covering Isaac's free hand with his own. The gesture was comforting. Reassurance mixed with gentle authority. "I know you're doing better. Everyone can see the improvement." David's thumb brushed across Isaac's knuckles. "But recovery isn't just about the symptoms disappearing for a few days. It's about building sustainable habits, understanding your triggers, learning coping mechanisms."

"How long is 'soon'?"

David shifted in his chair. The plastic creaked under his weight. Around them, other families huddled at similar tables. Whispered conversations, tears, awkward silences. The institutional lighting cast harsh shadows across everyone's faces.

"Dr. Harrow thinks another three weeks minimum. Maybe four."

The number felt like a slap to the face. His mouth opened, then closed. Three weeks stretched endlessly ahead of him. More group therapy sessions, more meal supervision, more nights in the narrow hospital bed listening to other patients cry through thin walls.

"That's almost a month."

"I know it feels like forever." David leaned forward, elbows on the table. "But think about where you were two weeks ago. You weren’t eating anything. You were having episodes daily. You thought the nurses were poisoning you with medication."

Isaac blushed. The paranoid episodes felt distant now, like remembering a fever dream. But the shame remained fresh and raw.

"I don't think that anymore."

"Because the medication is working and you're participating in therapy. That's exactly why you need to stay." David's voice carried that familiar big-brother tone, patient but firm. "We're not risking a setback by rushing this."

"What if I promise to keep taking the medication at home? What if I see Dr. Harrow as an outpatient?"

"Isaac." David's tone was firm. "This isn't a negotiation. You're staying until the doctors say you're ready to leave."

Isaac slumped in his seat, a frown on his face.

Isaac stared down at the table's scratched surface, watching his brother's hand still covering his own. "I hate it here." The words came out quieter than he'd intended. Around them, conversations continued in low murmurs. A woman at the next table dabbed at her eyes with a tissue while her teenage daughter picked at her fingernails.

"I know you do." David squeezed Isaac's hand. “Just think about getting better and going home. It’ll come sooner than you think.”

Isaac pulled his hand away from David's, wrapping both arms around Jumper. The stuffed rabbit's familiar weight provided comfort, but it wasn't enough to fill the hollow ache in his chest.

"Can you at least bring me some of my books from home? The library here only has cook books and sci fi."

David's face brightened slightly. "Of course. What do you want me to bring?"

"Dracula. And maybe Frankenstein." Isaac shifted Jumper to one arm, using his free hand to trace patterns on the table.

"I'll swing by the house tonight and grab them." David glanced at his watch.

“Have mom and dad asked about me?”

David looked away. He took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. “No.”

The single word hit Isaac hard. He'd been expecting it, but hearing it confirmed still made his stomach twist. His parents hadn't asked about him once since he'd been admitted. Not even a phone call to check if he was alive.

"Oh." Isaac's voice came out flat, emotionless. He focused on Jumper's button eyes, avoiding David's concerned gaze.

"Isaac, you know how they are."

"Don't make excuses for them."

David ran a hand through his hair, the gesture revealing his own frustration. “They always do this. It’s not new. I know it sucks but…” He sighed. “They’ve always been like this. It’s not personal.”

“I know,” Isaac said quietly, hugging Jumper. Somehow, even after all the years of neglect, it still hurt. Every single time he wanted his parents to care and every single time he was let down. Whether it was missing his graduation or not picking up the phone in an emergency, David was right. They were just like that. They didn’t care.

"But it still hurts," David said, his voice softer now. He watched Isaac's shoulders curl inward, the way they always did when their parents came up in conversation. "And that's okay. It's allowed to hurt."

Isaac nodded but didn't look up from Jumper. The bunny's fur had worn thin in spots from years of handling, small patches where the fabric showed through. He remembered getting it for his eighth birthday, because David and Sam had pooled their allowance and bought it together. Their parents had forgotten.

"Did you tell them where I am?"

"Yeah." David's jaw tightened. "I called them the night you were admitted. Dad said 'handle it' and hung up. Mom was asleep."

"Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with me that makes them not care."

"Nothing's wrong with you." David said quickly. "Nothing at all. They're the ones who are broken, not you."

Isaac finally met his brother's eyes. David's face held that same protective expression Isaac knew well, the same look he'd worn when defending Isaac from bigger kids or their parents when they went on another control rage where they’d go through all their things and throw away anything secular.

"I used to think maybe if I was better at everything, they'd notice." Isaac said, tracing small patterns on Jumper’s fur. "Like if I got perfect grades or won some award or something."

"You did get perfect grades. You graduated valedictorian, remember?"

Isaac frowned. "They didn't even show up to graduation."

"Because they're selfish." David said, a glint in his eyes that betrayed his real emotions. "Because they care more about their image at church than their own kids. That's not a reflection of your worth."

“I really believed the world was ending,” Isaac said. “Like end times tribulations and everything.”

“I know.” David smiled. “And you know as your older brother it’s my job to never let you live that down, right?”

Isaac quirked a smile too, looking up at his brother. “Great.”

"You know what the worst part was?" Isaac shifted Jumper to his other arm, finally meeting David's eyes properly. "I kept waiting for them to call. Even when I thought the world was ending, part of me expected them to check on me."

David's expression darkened. "They don't deserve you."

"The nurses keep asking about family support systems during discharge planning." Isaac said. "I tell them I have you, but they want to know about parents."

"What do you tell them?"

"That they're not involved." Isaac shrugged. "Dr. Harrow says it's actually better sometimes. Less complicated family dynamics to navigate during recovery."

David nodded. "She's probably right. Remember when I broke my arm and they spent the entire hospital visit arguing about whose fault it was?"

"You fell out of a tree."

"Exactly. But somehow it was mom's fault for not watching me and dad's fault for not trimming the branches." David shook his head. "They'd probably find a way to blame you for having a mental health crisis."

Isaac managed a small laugh. "Definitely. Probably something about not praying hard enough."

"Or reading too many secular books."

The visiting hour ended too quickly. David promised to return with the books, hugged Isaac goodbye, and disappeared through the heavy doors that separated the psychiatric ward from the outside world.

Isaac returned to his room, placing Jumper carefully on his pillow. Through the reinforced window, he watched David's car pull away from the parking lot. The hollow ache in his chest deepened.

Days blended together. Group therapy sessions where he learned about triggers and coping mechanisms. Meal times under careful supervision. Art therapy where he drew the same demons over and over. Dr. Harrow's individual sessions, picking apart his childhood and family dynamics piece by piece.

David visited every day, bringing books and updates from the outside world. He'd found a stray cat and adopter her. Her name was Lucy, short for Lucifer. She liked to scratch.

The weeks that followed passed in a steady rhythm of small improvements. Isaac's appetite returned gradually, meals becoming less of a battle and more routine. The paranoid episodes that had plagued his early days in the ward disappeared entirely. Dr. Harrow noted his progress in their sessions, watching as Isaac engaged more openly with the treatment process.

During group therapy, Isaac found himself speaking up more often. The circle of plastic chairs no longer felt quite as intimidating. When Sarah talked about her fights with God, Isaac offered his own experiences with religious delusions. He knew what it felt like to feel cornered by the voices in your head telling you things were out of your control.

"I used to think taking antipsychotics meant I was crazy," Isaac told the group during one session. "Like admitting defeat or something. But now I realize it's just like taking insulin for diabetes. Your brain chemistry is off, so you fix it."

Dr. Martinez smiled from her position at the edge of the circle. "That's excellent insight, Isaac."

The books David brought helped pass the long hours between structured activities. Isaac devoured Dracula in three days, then moved on to Frankenstein. The gothic imagery that had once fed his paranoid delusions now felt safely contained within fiction. He could appreciate the craft without losing himself in conspiracy theories about monsters lurking under his bed.

David visited every day, their conversations gradually shifting from reassurance to planning. They talked about Isaac moving in with David, about finding a therapist for ongoing treatment, and about things like medication and finding a psychiatrist for outpatient.

"Dr. Harrow wants to start weekend passes soon," Isaac told David during one visit. "Like, I'd come home Saturday morning and return Sunday night."

"That sounds great. We could grab dinner somewhere, maybe catch a movie."

Isaac nodded eagerly. The prospect of sleeping in his own bed, even for one night, felt impossibly luxurious. "He says if the weekend passes go well, I could be discharged in another week or two."

"How do you feel about that?"

The question caught Isaac off guard. He'd been so focused on wanting to leave that he hadn't considered whether he felt ready. "Scared, I guess. But good scared."

"What are you scared of?"

Isaac shifted in his seat. "Having another episode. Not being able to tell what's real. Ending up back here."

"Those are totally valid," David said. "But you've got tools now. Medication that works, coping strategies, you’re gonna sign up for outpatient."

"And you.”

"And me," David confirmed. "Always."

The weekend pass went smoothly. Isaac slept deeply in his own bed and woke to sunlight streaming through familiar windows. He was sleeping through the night more and more, with less interruptions from the voices. He and David went to a diner for breakfast, then browsed a used bookstore. Simple activities that had once felt overwhelming now seemed manageable, even enjoyable.

Back at the hospital Sunday evening, Isaac felt different. The ward still looked the same, but his relationship to it had shifted. Instead of feeling trapped, he saw it as a temporary stop. A place where he'd learned important things about himself and his illness.

Dr. Harrow scheduled his discharge for the following Friday. Isaac spent his final days saying goodbye to the staff and telling everyone how he was going to open his own bookstore soon.

On his last night, Isaac sat in the common room holding Jumper, watching late-night television with a few other patients. Being here no longer bothered him. Tomorrow he'd go home.

Friday morning arrived with crisp autumn air and the promise of freedom. Isaac had packed his few belongings the night before, folding his clothes carefully into the same duffel bag David had brought him weeks ago. Jumper sat on top, his button eyes surveying the room Isaac had stayed in for so long.

"Ready to go?" Dr. Harrow appeared in his doorway, clipboard in hand.

Isaac nodded, shouldering the bag. "More than ready."

The discharge process took longer than expected. Papers to sign, medication instructions to review, follow-up appointments to schedule. Isaac stumbled through each step, watching the clock inch toward ten o'clock when David would arrive.

"Remember, the medication needs to be taken consistently," Dr. Harrow said, handing him a bag. "Missing doses can trigger symptoms to return."

"I won't miss any," Isaac promised.

"And Dr. Chen will see you Tuesday for your first outpatient session."

Isaac pocketed the appointment card. "Got it."

When David finally walked through the main entrance, Isaac practically launched himself across the lobby. The embrace felt different this time. Not desperate or clinging, but celebratory.

"All set?" David asked, taking the duffel bag.

"Let's get out of here."

They walked through the automatic doors together, Isaac breathing deeply as fresh air hit his face. The parking lot stretched before them, cars glinting in morning sunlight. David's beat-up Honda sat in the second row, passenger door slightly dented but reliable.

Isaac climbed into the passenger seat, rolling down the window immediately. The institutional smell of disinfectant and recycled air finally cleared from his nostrils, replaced by exhaust fumes and autumn leaves.

David started the engine, classic rock crackling through worn speakers.

"Where to first? Home, or did you want to stop somewhere?"

Isaac considered the question, then grinned. Before David could protest, Isaac thrust his upper body through the open window, gripping the door frame.

"I'M FREE!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

His voice echoed across the parking lot.

"FINALLY FREE!"

David laughed, honking the horn twice in celebration. Isaac pulled himself back inside, his face flushed with excitement and embarrassment.

"Feel better?"

"Much better." Isaac buckled his seatbelt, Jumper secure in his lap. "Now let's go home."

[rosesofred7]

Recovery ch. 11

Artist/Author: rosesofred  Title: Recovery Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU Summary:  Steven wakes up in the Duat and he’s very unhappy. Osiris and a healer are there to greet him. Notes & Warnings: None for this chapter. Links: Masterlist Part 10 Part 12

Steven stirred in his sleep, mumbling something about his mum. It was incoherent but clear enough for any listeners to know what he was dreaming about. A cool hand pressed against his forehead, checking his temperature. He wasn’t running a fever, thank the gods. Just beat up with a bruised ego to match.

“Easy now,” came a soft voice. Steven's eyes fluttered open and he blinked wearily, noticing how only half his vision seemed clear. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut, black and purple around the edges. 

From what he could see, a tall slender woman sat on the side of his bed, her long hair pulled back into an intricate braid of black dreads. She wore silver glasses with sharp cat-like eyes that peered out from beneath the narrow frames. Her accent was thick, Egyptian most likely, or maybe Levantine.

“You’re injured. Move slowly."

Steven's thoughts swam through molasses, thick and slow. The ceiling above him looked wrong. Too high, too ornate, definitely not the water-stained plaster of his London flat. He tried to piece together where he was, how he'd got here, but his memories scattered like dust motes in sunlight.

“What…” The word scraped out of his throat, raw and unused.

"Don't speak yet." The woman's hand remained steady on his shoulder, a gentle weight that somehow anchored him to consciousness.

He ignored her. Of course he did. Steven shifted his weight to push himself upright, and white hot agony exploded through his chest. A groan tore from his throat, ragged and raw. His ribs screamed in protest, each breath a fresh reminder that something had gone very, very wrong.

"I told you not to move.” There was no accusation in her tone, just observation. She'd seen this before, probably more times than she cared to count.

Steven slumped back against the pillows, panting shallow breaths that didn't jostle his ribcage quite so much. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the room's coolness. His good eye watered from the pain.

"Where..." He swallowed, tried again. "Where am I?"

“You’re in the Duat, in Osiris’s sanctuary." She stood, her movements, moving as gracefully as a cat. Light caught on the silver jewelry around her wrists and neck and shimmered brilliantly. “Your confusion is natural, you were quite beat up and upset from what Osiris told me."

"Harrow.” Steven muttered. It all came back to him now. Anubis leaving him, Harrow torturing him, Osiris dragging him back to the Duat kicking and screaming. Great.

The woman's eyebrow arched above her glasses. "So you do remember. Good. That suggests no serious head trauma, though with the state of your face, I wouldn't rule out a concussion."

Steven tried to catalog his injuries without moving. His ribs, definitely cracked. His eye, swollen shut. His knuckles throbbed too. Had he fought back? Everything felt distant, like he'd experienced it through a film rather than lived it.

"Who are you?"

“Gamila. Or my avatar is named Gamila, at least. I am Sekhmet."

Steven's good eye widened. “The warrior goddess?"

“And goddess of medicine,” she corrected. “I am a skilled healer, I assure you."

Steven's fingers curled into the bedding beneath him, fabric bunching in his fist. This was his chance. Maybe his only one.

"You have to help me get out of here." The words tumbled out in a rush. "Please. I don't belong here, I'm just a regular bloke from London who works at a museum gift shop. This is all some massive cock-up."

Sekhmet's expression didn't shift. She pulled a small vial from somewhere within her robes, uncorking it with practiced ease. The scent of herbs filled the air, sharp and medicinal.

"Drink this."

"No, listen to me." Steven tried to sit up again, forgot about his ribs, and gasped as pain lanced through his torso. “Osiris is holding me and Marc here against our will, but there’s way more important things we need to do. We have to find Anubis and get the ushabti to safety so Harrow doesn’t waken Ammit."

"You're asking me to defy Osiris." Her voice remained neutral, clinical even. She tipped the vial toward his lips. "Drink."

Steven turned his head away, stubborn despite the agony radiating through his body. “You’re not listening to me."

"I heard every word." Sekhmet set the vial on the bedside table, her movements calm and collected. "But you're not thinking clearly. Your body is broken, Steven. You can barely move without crying out. How exactly do you plan to find anyone or protect anything in this state?"

“I don’t have a choice, I have to leave now or thousands of people could be hurt! Harrow is going to find the ushabti and raise Ammit."

She crossed her arms, those cat-like eyes sharp behind her glasses. "Osiris brought you here because you were tortured. Your ribs are cracked, probably fractured. Your face looks like someone used it for target practice. And based on what I'm seeing, you have been neglecting yourself for quite some time, too."

Steven's jaw clenched. “None of that matters in the bigger picture."

The door swung open without warning. Osiris filled the doorway, his presence massive even in the body of his avatar, Selim. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes that Steven hadn't noticed before.

"How is he?"

"Stubborn." Sekhmet didn't look away from Steven. "Won't drink the pain tonic. And he wants to leave immediately and save the world."

"Of course he does." Osiris moved into the room, each step deliberate. He stopped at the foot of the bed, studying Steven with an expression that was harder to read than hieroglyphics. "You remind me of Anubis sometimes. You both possess the same martyr complex."

"I'm nothing like him." The words came out sharper than Steven intended. His chest tightened, though whether from pain or something else entirely, he couldn't tell. Maybe he was a little mad at the jackal headed god for leaving him with Harrow.

"No?” Osiris raised an eyebrow. "Both of you would rather suffer alone than accept help. Both of you are convinced the weight of the world rests solely on your shoulders." He paused. "Both of you were abandoned by those who should have protected you."

Steven looked away, focusing on a crack in the wall. His throat felt tight.

"Drink the tonic, Steven. Rest. We'll discuss everything else when you can stand without wanting to vomit from the pain."

“What if I refuse?"

Osiris's expression hardened. "Then I'll hold you down and Sekhmet will pour it down your throat herself. Your choice."

Steven stammered for a moment before giving in. He knew the god wasn’t bluffing, the gods never seemed to bluff. They always meant exactly what they said. Do this or else. And he didn’t really want to experience the ‘or else’ in this case. He raised a hand, waiting for Sekhmet to hand him the vial.

In one fluid motion he downed the tonic and made a face from disgust. It tasted like feet and dirt. But it did work, surprsingly fast in fact. Withing moments he sighed in relief, lowering himself down onto the pillows as a warmth of numbness flushed through his aching body.

The relief lasted mere seconds before exhaustion crashed over Steven like a wave. His eyelids grew heavy, the room's edges softening into watercolor blurs.

"What did you give me?" The words slurred together.

"Pain relief and a sedative." Sekhmet collected the empty vial. "Your body needs rest to heal. Fighting it will only make things worse."

Steven wanted to argue, wanted to insist he didn't have time for this, but his tongue felt thick and useless. The darkness crept in from the corners of his vision, warm and insistent. “Tricked me…” He couldn't finish the thought.

Osiris moved closer, his hand settling on Steven's shoulder with surprising gentleness. "Sleep. No one will harm you here."

The promise meant nothing. Steven knew that. But right now he wasn’t concerned about his own safety, he was far more worried about the lives of the thousands of innocents Harrow would soon destroy. In the end it didn’t matter, the sedative won the battle of wills and his eyes fluttered shut.

When Steven's breathing evened out, Osiris pulled his hand back and rubbed his face. He looked every bit as tired as he felt.

"How bad is it really?"

Sekhmet pulled the blanket up over Steven's chest, careful not to jostle his injuries. "The ribs will heal with time. The bruising is superficial, though painful. What concerns me more is his general state of health." She gestured at Steven's too-thin frame beneath the covers. "He's malnourished, dehydrated, and based on the tremor I noticed in his hands, likely hasn't been taking proper care of himself for months, if not longer. Didn’t you take care of him here?"

Osiris bristled. 

"He was here for only a few days, Sekhmet. I fed him plenty." Osiris's voice carried an edge to it. "The state he's in now is from months, possibly years of self-neglect."

Sekhmet tilted her head, studying him with those penetrating eyes. "And yet you chose to take him in anyway."

"I chose to because it was necessary according to our laws." Osiris moved to the window, staring out at the expanse of the Duat beyond. "He needs structure. Guidance. Someone to ensure he doesn't destroy himself in pursuit of saving everyone else."

"Sounds familiar." The goddess packed away her supplies quietly. "You said the same thing about Anubis when you took him in."

Osiris's shoulders tensed. "This is different."

"Is it?" Sekhmet didn't wait for an answer. "A broken young man with no sense of self-preservation, convinced he must carry the world alone. You see yourself in them, Osiris. The version of you that existed before you learned to ask for help."

"Enough." The word cracked like a whip through the room. Osiris didn't turn around, but his hands gripped the windowsill. "I brought you here to heal him, not psychoanalyze my parenting decisions."

Sekhmet didn't flinch. She'd known Osiris far too long to be intimidated by his moods. "He's going to fight you every step of the way. You know that, right? The moment he wakes up, he'll try to leave again."

"Then I'll stop him."

"By force?" Sekhmet crossed her arms. "Lock him in his room? Chain him to the bed?"

"If necessary." Osiris finally turned from the window, his jaw set. "I won't let him throw his life away because he thinks he's expendable."

"And what about what he wants?"

"What he wants will get him killed." The god's voice dropped, heavy with conviction. "Harrow already tortured him once. You saw the marks, Sekhmet. The bruises. Another encounter like that and Steven won't survive it."

Sekhmet glanced at the sleeping figure on the bed. Steven's face had relaxed in unconsciousness, making him look younger, more vulnerable. The swelling around his eye had already started to diminish thanks to her poultices, but the purple-black bruising would take days to fade completely.

"You can't protect everyone, Osiris."

“Yes, I can." He moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. "Keep him sedated for now. I need time to think, to plan. Harrow is still out there, and if Anubis has the ushabti…"

"Then Anubis is in danger too." Sekhmet finished the thought, watching recognition flash across Osiris's features.

The god's expression cracked, just for a moment. Worry bled through the stern facade. His adopted son was somewhere out there, possibly walking into the same trap that had nearly killed Steven.

"I sent Horus to track him down." Osiris's voice roughened. "He should have reported back by now."

"Your sons are both headstrong. Perhaps Horus is having trouble convincing Anubis to return home."

"Anubis doesn't have a choice in the matter." The paternal authority snapped back into place like armor. "When Horus finds him, he's coming home whether he likes it or not. I'll deal with his tantrum afterwards."

“Wouldn’t want to be any of your charges right now,” Sekhmet said with a small smile.

Osiris shot her a look that could have withered crops. "I don't recall asking for your opinion on my parenting."

"Good thing I give it freely then." Sekhmet moved past him toward the door, pausing to rest a hand briefly on his arm. "You're doing the right thing, even if it doesn't feel like it. Both of them need guidance, structure. But remember, caging a wild animal doesn't make it domesticated. It just makes it desperate."

She left before he could respond, her footsteps fading down the corridor.

Osiris remained in the doorway, his gaze drifting back to Steven's unconscious form. The human looked small in the oversized bed, swallowed by linens that cost more than everything Steven probably owned. His breathing came shallow but steady, chest rising and falling beneath the blankets.

The god crossed back to the bedside, lowering himself into the chair beside the bed. He studied Steven's battered face, the way pain lingered even in sleep, creasing the corners of his eyes.

"You're going to hate me for this," Osiris murmured to the sleeping man. "Both of you will, probably. Anubis already does."

The drama of mortals shouldn’t bother him so much. But it did, it always had. He’d tried to distance himself from the mortal world, to only take an avatar as a means to watch and observe their world from a distance. But even still he was involved, taking care of an injured mortal under his custody. 

The silence in the room pressed down hard and firm around him. Osiris leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking beneath his avatar's frame. Outside, the Duat stretched endlessly, timeless and unchanging. But here, in this small room, time felt suddenly precious and fleeting.

Steven shifted in his sleep, a small sound of distress escaping him. His hand clenched the blanket, knuckles white despite the sedative coursing through his system. Nightmares, most likely. After what Harrow had put him through, of course he was having nightmares.

Osiris reached out, hesitated, then placed his hand over Steven's. The human's fingers relaxed slightly at the touch, the tension bleeding from his shoulders.

"I know what you're thinking," Osiris said quietly. "That I'm a tyrant. That I've imprisoned you here against your will." He paused, thumb brushing across Steven's knuckles. "Maybe you're right. But I've watched too many good souls destroy themselves because no one stopped them."

The door opened again. Osiris didn't need to look up to know who it was.

"Still brooding?" Isis's voice was warm with gentle reproach in equal measure. She moved into the room quietly, her presence immediately softening the sharp edges of Osiris's mood.

"Thinking."

"Same thing with you." She came to stand beside him, her hand settling on his shoulder. "Sekhmet told me everything. How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine."

"Liar." Her fingers squeezed gently. "You're worried about Anubis. And now this one too."

Osiris's jaw tightened. He couldn't deny it, not to her. "Horus should have found him by now. It's been hours."

"Anubis is clever. He knows how to hide when he wants to." Isis's gaze drifted to Steven. “You need rest, love."

"I need to ensure Steven remains stable until we decide our next steps."

"Steven is stable. Sekhmet gave him enough sedative to keep him under for at least another six hours." Isis moved around the chair, positioning herself between Osiris and the bed. "You haven't slept in days. Don't think I haven't noticed."

"There's too much to do."

"There's always too much to do." She cupped his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "That's never stopped you from taking care of yourself before. “Do I need to lecture you on taking care of your avatar too? Selim looks wrung out."

Osiris held her gaze for a long moment, exhaustion weighing him down. Selim's body wasn't invincible. The avatar needed sleep, food, rest, all the tedious requirements of mortal flesh that he sometimes forgot to maintain.

"Fine." The word came out rougher than he intended. "But you'll stay with him? Wake me if anything changes?"

"Of course." Isis's expression softened, her thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "I raised two boys already, I think I can handle watching one sleeping human for a few hours."

Osiris pushed himself up from the chair, his joints protesting the movement. 

"If Horus returns, tell me."

"I'll send word immediately." Isis guided him toward the door with gentle pressure on his back. “Go get some rest. Let me handle this for now."

He paused at the threshold, glancing back at Steven's unconscious form. The human looked fragile, breakable. Nothing like the stubborn man who'd argued with him earlier, who'd demanded to leave despite barely being able to move.

"He reminds you of yourself," Isis said quietly. "Before you learned to accept help."

"Sekhmet said the same thing." Osiris rubbed his face, feeling the stubble on Selim's jaw. 

"Six hours," he conceded. "Then I'm coming back."

"Eight."

"Seven."

"Done." Isis waved him away with an affectionate smile. "Now go before I make it nine out of spite."

Osiris left, his footsteps heavy in the corridor. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Isis alone with the sleeping human. She reached out, adjusting the blanket over Steven's shoulders.

"You've certainly complicated things," she murmured. "But then again, the interesting ones always do."

[rosesofred7]

Putnam Psychiatric Hospital ch. 10

Artist/Author: rosesofred  Title: Putnam Psychiatric Hospital Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU, original story Summary:  Notes & Warnings: Links:

Isaac had expected the worst. To be strapped down, or overly medicated, or even force fed, despite the feeding tube. What he hadn’t expected was to be allowed the freedom to move around again. He had to be watched, every move was followed and tracked by an orderly or nurse. Even his bathroom trips were monitored. But he wasn’t strapped down anymore.

Dr. Harrow had assured him it was no longer necessary since he was displaying more calm and controlled behaviour and was no longer a danger. Despite his progress, he was still being watched.

Dr. Harrow settled into his chair across from Isaac, clipboard balanced on his knee. The artificial light made it seem like it was midday but it was still early morning. Sometime past breakfast, if Isaac had to guess.

"How are you feeling today, Isaac?"

Isaac shifted in his seat, dull nails scratching at his arm. "Better. The nightmares aren't as frequent."

"Good. That's progress." Dr. Harrow made a note. "I'd like to talk about your family today. Specifically, your brother."

The scratching stopped. Isaac's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "What about him?"

"You talked about him briefly during our first session. Samuel, isn't it?" Dr. Harrow's pen hovered over the page. "Tell me about your relationship with him."

Isaac stared at the wall behind the doctor's head. "We don't have one. He’s dead."

"But you did once."

"That was a long time ago."

Dr. Harrow leaned forward slightly. "What changed?"

A muscle in Isaac's cheek twitched. His hands clenched into fists on his lap. "He died."

"How did he die?”

Isaac went quiet. He didn’t talk it. He never thought about it. The images that came up in his mind made his stomach lurch. The way he’d swung. The quiet of the room. The stench of piss. He hadn’t known bodies released all their fluids at death. But he did now.

The silence stretched between them. But Dr. Harrow didn't fill it with meaningless chatter or redirect the conversation. He just waited. Isaac's breathing had changed. Shallow, controlled. His knuckles turned white where they pressed against his thighs.

"Isaac?"

"He hung himself." The words came out flat, emotionless. "In his bedroom. I found him."

Dr. Harrow wrote something down. "How old were you?"

"Twenty seven.”

"That must have been traumatic."

Isaac held perfectly still. He rubbed at the tube in his nose. Picked at his skin. "Do you know what it's like to cut down your brother's body? To feel how heavy a person becomes when they're just... meat?"

"Tell me."

Isaac's fingers found a scab and he started picking at it. He pulled at it, watching it come off. "I had to hold him up while I cut the rope. I kept dropping him.”

Dr. Harrow's pen moved across the paper. "What happened after you found him?"

"I called the police. They asked questions." Isaac's voice remained flat. Lifeless. “Then I told my parents. They didn’t even-“ Isaac stopped himself, taking a breath. He let it out slowly. Thinking. “They didn’t want to see him.”

“Did he leave a note?”

Isaac shook his head.

He wanted to say that he felt like a failure. That he felt like he failed his big brother. That he should’ve seen it in his eyes before he left for class. He’d asked him what he wanted for dinner before he left, and Sam hadn’t really answered. He’d just shrugged his shoulders and said ‘whatever you want.’ Had it been there in his eyes? A sign of what he was planning? He couldn’t shake it from his head, that he could’ve caught it. Could’ve done something. Could’ve stopped him.

A sob caught in Isaac’s throat. He blinked back tears. Tried to stop it all from falling out, but before he knew it he was crying. He couldn’t stop himself, it all came pouring out in a wave of sadness. Of loss. That cold emptiness in his chest from losing his brother. He couldn’t bear it anymore. He cried.

Dr. Harrow offered him a tissue but Isaac turned away, covering his face. He felt ashamed to be crying so openly in front of the man who’d treated him like an animal before. Who wouldn’t take him seriously or understand why he didn’t want to take medications.

Dr. Harrow waited until Isaac's breathing steadied before speaking again. The tissue box sat untouched on the small table between them.

"You blame yourself."

Isaac wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Wouldn't you?"

"It's not uncommon for survivors to feel responsible. But suicide isn't something you can prevent by watching for signs." He said it like he could read Isaac’s mind, like he knew what he was feeling.

"You don't know that." Isaac's voice cracked. "I lived with him. I saw him every day. If I'd paid attention- if I’d- if-“ He choked on another sob.

"What would you have done differently?"

Isaac opened his mouth, then closed it. His hands trembled in his lap. "I don't know. Something. Anything."

"Did your brother ever tell you he was struggling?"

"Sam never talked about feelings. He was the strong one." Isaac laughed. "At least I thought he was." It all seemed so obvious now. Of course he wasn’t the strong one. He was just the one who hid it all the best.

Dr. Harrow set his pen down. "Tell me about him. What was he like before?"

Isaac's expression softened slightly. "He was protective. When we were kids, he'd stand up to bullies for me. He made sure I ate lunch. Helped me with homework." He paused. "Our parents didn’t really do any of that. Sam and David practically raised me."

"How much older was he?"

"Ten years. But he acted more like my dad than my brother. He lived in our parents’ house with me because he was struggling financially." Isaac picked at the scab again.

"How long had he been living with you?"

"About two years. Since he lost his job." Isaac's fingers found another scab to pick at. "He was embarrassed about it. Moving back home at his age. But I didn't care. I liked having him around. Even with his depression.”

Dr. Harrow glanced at his notes, then back at Isaac. The young man had stopped picking at his scab, his hands resting flat against his thighs. His eyes were still red rimmed from crying.

"Isaac, I want to discuss something else with you today."

Isaac's shoulders tensed. "What?"

"Your eating. The medical team has been monitoring your weight and nutritional levels through the feeding tube." Dr. Harrow set his clipboard aside. "Your body is responding well to the supplementation. Your levels are improving."

"Okay."

"I think it's time we talked about removing the tube. Transitioning you back to regular meals."

Isaac's hand moved automatically to touch the tube running down his throat. He’d grown used to it but the thought of getting it removed made him feel beyond happy. “Yes. I can do that. I can eat regular meals.”

Dr. Harrow studied Isaac's face carefully. "Before we make that transition, I need to understand what led to your restrictive eating patterns. When did you first start limiting your food intake?"

Isaac's hand dropped from the tube. The relief that had flickered across his features dimmed. "I don't know what you mean."

"Isaac, you had stopped eating long before you came to stay with us here. What triggered it?”

He swallowed, thinking about it. It hadn’t really been any one thing in particular. More of a mix bag of things, all jumbled up into one big not wanting to eat. “My parents, I guess. They’d have me fast to purify myself and it felt good. Pure. And I was never hungry anyways so I just kept going. It made me feel safer from the demons.”

“Have you heard them recently?”

Isaac shook his head. “Not today.”

"What about yesterday? Or the day before?" Dr. Harrow leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle but persistent.

Isaac coughed. "Sometimes. Not as loud as before."

"What do they tell you?"

"The usual things." Isaac said. "That I'm going to hell. That the end is near. That medication will poison me." He met Dr. Harrow's eyes for the first time since they'd started talking about the tube. "But I know they're not real now. Most of the time."

Dr. Harrow nodded slowly. "That's significant progress. The medication is helping stabilize those symptoms."

"I don't like how it makes me feel." Isaac shifted in his chair. "Foggy. Kind of like a zombie."

"We can adjust the dosage as you continue to improve. The goal isn't to numb you, Isaac. It's to quiet the voices enough so you can function."

Isaac rubbed at his temples. The headaches had been constant since he’d started the antipsychotics. "Will they ever go away completely?"

“Probably not.” He said honestly. He didn’t want his patient to get his hopes up if it couldn’t happen. “But you’ll be able to function.”

“Can we take the tube out today?”

"Not today. I want to monitor you for a few more days first. To make sure you're stable."

Isaac's face fell. "But I feel better. I told you the voices are quieter."

"And that's excellent progress. But your weight is still critically low, and your body needs time to adjust to the medication changes." Dr. Harrow's voice remained patient but firm. "Rushing the process could set you back."

"How much longer?"

"Let's aim for the end of the week. If you continue improving at this rate, we can discuss removal then."

Isaac slumped back in his chair. The tube felt heavier now, more intrusive. He touched it again, feeling the plastic against his throat. "I hate this thing."

"I know you do. But it's keeping you alive right now." Dr. Harrow made another note. "Your body was shutting down when you arrived. The tube is giving your organs the nutrients they need to heal."

"I wasn't trying to die." The words came out quietly, almost inaudible.

Dr. Harrow looked up from his notes. "What were you trying to do?"

Isaac stared at his hands. "I don't know. I was too wrapped up in the demons and what they were saying to care about eating. It wasn’t intentional.”

The doctor nodded, looking through his notes. “Well, we’ll see how you’re doing at the end of the week.”

Isaac sighed, resigning himself to the time limit the doctor had set. He went to his room and read the old Star Trek book during lunch, waiting until it was over so he could go to the rec room. He couldn’t find Layla anywhere all day. She wasn’t in any of her usual places and nobody seemed to know who he was talking about. It frustrated him but he hoped it was just because she’d been released early and not because something had happened to her.

She hadn’t been right about Dr. Harrow, after all. He wasn’t planning to keep Isaac there forever, he was actually pushing him to get better. His entire perspective on the facility had changed in the past few days. Like a fog had been lifted. He was on his way towards recovery and was doing better with the voices. He knew they weren’t real now, and that was progress. It didn’t stop them from chattering at him but it at least made it more manageable.

Isaac spent the rest of the week following the routines Dr. Harrow had outlined for him. He attended group therapy sessions where other patients shared their stories. Some coherent, others rambling and disconnected. He participated in art therapy, though his drawings remained scary and ‘not what they were doing today’. Mostly he read his Star Trek book and counted down the days until Friday.

The voices still whispered occasionally, but they felt distant now. Like static from a radio in another room. He could acknowledge them without being consumed by their urgency. The medication fog persisted, making his thoughts feel wrapped in cotton, but Dr. Harrow assured him this would improve as his body adjusted.

Thursday evening, Isaac sat in the rec room working on a jigsaw puzzle when he heard a demon loud and clear in his ear.

The temple will be rebuilt with the heifer of red sacrificed on the alter like Isaac the man on mountain sides blazing, Isaac the sacrifice.

Isaac stilled, listening in on the voice. It didn’t make a lot of sense like it used to, now just a jumble of words he had to focus on to understand. It was referring to him, Isaac, but also the biblical Isaac. He‘d always wondered why his parents named him after the boy sacrifice rather than someone strong like David and Samuel. Maybe they knew he’d be the weakest one. The sacrifice.

The voice was more clear than it had been in days. He knew it wasn’t real though, it wasn’t a real demon. He pressed his palms against his ears, but the words continued.

Red heifer, red blood, red moon rising. The sacrifice must be pure. Must be empty. Must be ready.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "You're not real."

But the voice laughed. We've always been real, Isaac. The pills just make you forget. But we remember. We know what you are.

Isaac stood abruptly, the puzzle pieces scattering across the floor. The other patients in the rec room looked up from their activities, but Isaac barely noticed them. The voice was getting louder, more insistent.

Your brother knew. That's why he left. He couldn't watch you become what you're meant to be.

"Stop it." Isaac's voice cracked. His hands trembled as he ran for the door.

The temple needs rebuilding. The sacrifice needs preparing. You've been starving yourself for a reason, Isaac. Your body knows.

An orderly approached, a concerned expression on his face. "Isaac? You okay?"

Isaac couldn't answer. The voice was drowning out everything else now, filling his head with images of ancient altars and blood-soaked stones. His vision blurred at the edges, the rec room tilting sideways.

Friday they remove the tube. Friday you can refuse food again. Friday you can finish what you started.

"I wasn't trying to die," Isaac gasped, repeating what he'd told Dr. Harrow. But the voice laughed again.

Weren't you? Then why does it feel so right? Why does emptiness feel like holiness?

The orderly's hand touched Isaac's shoulder and he flinched violently, stumbling backward into a chair. Other voices joined in now, laughing at him, mocking him. “I need to see Dr. Harrow!” Isaac shouted. The orderly nodded, turning to leave and retrieve the doctor. He moved quick, returning with Harrow in step. Isaac stood in the room near the wall, his hands over his ears, willing the voices to go away.

Dr. Harrow approached slowly, his movements deliberate and non-threatening. He kept his voice calm, steady. "Isaac, look at me."

Isaac's eyes darted around the room, unfocused. His hands pressed harder against his ears. "They're loud today. Louder than before."

"I know they feel real, but remember what we talked about. The voices are symptoms of your condition." Dr. Harrow stepped closer, maintaining eye contact. "What are they telling you?"

"About the sacrifice. About the temple." Isaac's voice came out strained, barely above a whisper. He was trying to talk above the voices and it was hard to focus. Like having two conversations at once. “They want… um. They want me to starve myself. To be holy. And pure.”

Dr. Harrow nodded, his expression remaining calm despite Isaac's distress. "Those voices are lying to you, Isaac. There's nothing holy about starving yourself. Your body needs nutrition to heal."

Isaac shook his head violently, his hands still clamped over his ears. "You don't understand. Fasting is pure."

"Isaac, listen to my voice. Focus on what's real." Dr. Harrow gestured to the rec room around them. "You're in a hospital. You're safe. The voices are a symptom of your illness, not divine messages."

"But they know about Samuel. They know he left because of me." Isaac's breathing quickened, shallow gasps that made his chest rise and fall rapidly. "They know I'm meant to be the sacrifice."

"Your brother didn't leave because of you. He was struggling with his own mental health." Dr. Harrow's voice remained steady, patient. "The voices are using your grief to manipulate you."

Isaac pressed his back against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the floor. The voices were getting louder, overlapping each other in a cacophony of whispers and shouts. His vision blurred as tears swelled in his eyes.

"They're so loud," he gasped. "I can't make them stop."

Dr. Harrow crouched down to Isaac's level, careful not to crowd him. "Isaac, would it help if we gave you something to quiet them? A sedative to help you through this episode?"

Isaac looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. The voices were screaming now about temples and altars and blood. About Friday when the tube would come out and he could refuse food again. About Samuel hanging from the rope, about Isaac finding him swinging there.

"I don't want to be foggy again," Isaac whispered, but his resolve was cracking. The noise in his head was unbearable.

"It's just temporary relief. Just enough to give you space to breathe." Dr. Harrow kept his voice gentle. "You don't have to suffer through this alone."

Isaac closed his eyes, the voices telling him the medication would poison his soul, would make him unfit for sacrifice. But he was exhausted from fighting them. From hearing them. From being afraid. "Okay," he breathed. "Please make them stop."

“Get me Isaac’s PRN,” Dr. Harrow ordered, but Isaac couldn’t see who he was talking to. It was taking everything Isaac had to just stay calm and not talk back to the voices, as persistent as they were.

A minute later, Dr. Harrow’s calm voice was above him again, explaining that he was just giving Isaac a sedative. His hand was on his arm, pulling up his short sleeve to uncover his shoulder. Then a small prick and the medication flowed into his system. It had a near instant effect, his body uncoiling and relaxing as all his muscles went lax. He sighed, lowering his hands.

The voices were still there but they were quieter now, more manageable.

Isaac's breathing slowed as the medication took full effect. He slumped against the wall, his body finally releasing the tension that had coiled through every muscle.

"Better?" Dr. Harrow remained crouched beside him, watching Isaac's face carefully.

"Yeah." Isaac's voice came out thick, slightly slurred. His eyelids felt heavy. "They're still there but... quieter."

"Good. That's what we want." Dr. Harrow stood slowly, offering Isaac his hand. "Let's get you back to your room so you can rest."

Isaac accepted the help, his legs unsteady as he rose. The orderly who had first approached him stepped forward, ready to assist, but Dr. Harrow waved him off. Isaac could walk on his own, he just needed a moment to find his balance. Dr. Harrow grabbed the feeding pole for him, as Isaac seemed to forget it.

They moved slowly down the hallway, Isaac's steps careful and deliberate. The fluorescent lights seemed brighter now, casting everything in sharp relief. Other patients they passed looked up with mild curiosity before returning to their activities. Nobody bothered them.

"Dr. Harrow?" Isaac's words came out measured, like he had to concentrate on each one. "Are we still taking the tube out Friday?"

Dr. Harrow was quiet for a moment, considering. "We'll see how you're doing. This episode concerns me, Isaac. The voices are directly targeting your relationship with food."

"But I know they're not real now. Most of the time." Isaac touched the tube running down his throat. "I want to eat normal food again."

"I understand. But I need to be certain you can resist their influence when they tell you to stop eating." They reached Isaac's room and Dr. Harrow guided him to sit on the bed. "Your recovery is more important than any timeline."

Isaac nodded, though disappointment flickered across his features. The sedative was pulling him toward sleep, making his thoughts feel distant and soft around the edges. "Will they always be this loud sometimes?"

"Episodes like this can happen, especially during stressful periods or changes in routine." Dr. Harrow pulled a chair closer to the bed. "But with the right medication balance and coping strategies, they become less frequent and less intense."

Isaac lay back against the pillow, his eyes already closing. "I'm tired of fighting them."

"You don't have to fight them alone anymore." Dr. Harrow picked up Jumper, gently tucking the bunny into Isaac’s arm as he closed his eyes.

[rosesofred7]

Recovery ch. 10

Artist/Author: rosesofred  Title: Recovery Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU Summary: Layla comes to rescue Steven but someone else shows up too. Only one of them will take Steven home with them. Notes & Warnings: Guns, violence Links:

Layla pressed against rough concrete, fingers finding purchase in gaps between blocks. Every guard rotation followed a pattern. Twenty minutes clockwise, fifteen counter. She'd been watching for an hour.

Voices drifted from the main gate. Two guards, swapping shifts. Their Arabic came muffled, distorted by distance. Something about breakfast, complaints about the heat.

Layla edged along the wall. Her boots found quiet spots between loose gravel. Marc's training, buried somewhere in muscle memory she didn't want to examine too closely. Don't think about Marc. Don't think about how he'd handle this better, faster. Or how he had another person living in his body that she kind of had a crush on. Was that cheating?

The compound sprawled before her, a tall brick building that looked both old and modern in a strange way. Harrow's followers moved around the structure like ants, purposeful and organized. 

A service entrance jutted from the eastern wall. Rusted hinges, paint peeling. Layla crept closer, testing the handle. Locked, but the mechanism looked old. Pickable, maybe, if she had tools. If she had time.

Movement caught her eye.

A figure emerged from a side door, hunched and quick. White shirt, dark hair, bright blue eyes. The figure clutched something against his chest, arms wrapped protectively around a small box.

Layla's breath caught.

Anubis.

He moved like a shadow, each step precise. No hesitation, no backward glances. The god navigated between buildings, avoiding pools of lamplight with ease.

Layla abandoned the service entrance. She jogged along the perimeter, tracking his path. Her fingers found the fence, testing links for weak points. Anubis moved toward the southern section where guards thinned out.

He reached the fence thirty meters ahead. Blue energy sparked around his fingers, so brief Layla almost missed it. The chain-link peeled back like fabric, creating an opening.

"Anubis!" Layla hissed, too quiet to carry.

The god slipped through. The fence sealed behind him with a whisper of metal. He straightened, adjusting his grip on the box. His face caught starlight, expression distant and closed.

Layla ran. Gravel crunched beneath her boots, stealth abandoned. "Anubis, wait!"

He turned, eyes widening. Recognition flickered across his features, followed immediately by something harder. Guilt, maybe. Or determination.

"Where's Steven?" Layla skidded to a stop three feet away, chest heaving. "Is he still in there?"

Anubis's arms tightened around the box. "I have the ushabti."

"I don't give a damn about the ushabti. Where. Is. Steven?"

"Inside." Anubis's jaw set, stubborn. "Getting out required… There were complications."

Layla's hands curled into fists. "You left him?"

"I had to secure the ushabti. That was the priority. He knew the risks." Anubis stepped backward, creating distance. "We both did. The ushabti had to be recovered before Harrow moved it again."

"So you just abandoned him?"

"I did what was necessary. Ammit cannot be freed. Steven understood that."

"Understanding doesn't mean he agreed to be left behind as bait!"

Anubis's expression cracked, just for a second. Something raw showed through before he buried it again. "I'll go back. Once the ushabti is secure, I'll return for him."

“And let Harrow and his goons torture him? What do you think they’re going to do when they find him?” Layla snapped.

Anubis's fingers dug into the carved wood, knuckles pale. "They won't kill him. Harrow needs Marc. He'll use Steven to draw him out."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"It buys time." The words came out flat, rehearsed. Like he'd been telling himself the same thing since he'd slipped through that fence. "Once the ushabti is secured with Khonshu, I'll extract Steven. Harrow won't expect a second infiltration."

"Khonshu." Layla spat the name. "That's who you're working for?"

"I'm not working for him." Anubis said, his jaw working. "This isn't about allegiance. It's about preventing Ammit's release. Nothing else matters."

"Steven matters."

Something flickered behind Anubis's eyes. Pain, bright and sharp before he shoved it down. His shoulders pulled back, spine straightening. "One human life against thousands. The math is simple."

"Don't give me that cold god bullshit. I saw your face when I asked about him."

Anubis turned away, his feet already moving. "I have to go."

“Wait!" Layla hissed.

Anubis broke into a run, clutching the ushabti tight against his ribs. His feet pounded earth, carrying him into darkness beyond the compound's glow.

"Anubis!" Layla grabbed the fence, fingers threading through chain-link. "Don't you dare."

But he'd already disappeared between buildings, swallowed by the city's sprawling outskirts. He was gone.

Layla slammed her palm against metal. The fence rattled, the sound too loud in the quiet night. She pressed her forehead against the links, breathing hard.

One human life against thousands.

"Bastard," she whispered.

Guards would be changing shifts again soon. Fifteen minutes, maybe less. Layla pushed away from the fence, mind racing. The service entrance wouldn't work now. Too exposed, too slow. She needed another way in.

Her eyes tracked along the compound's eastern wall. Air conditioning units jutted from second-floor windows, creating a ladder of sorts. Risky, but doable.

Layla moved quick, keeping low. She reached the wall and tested the first unit with her boot. Metal groaned but held. She pulled herself up, fingers finding edges, toes balanced on narrow ledges.

Don't look down. Don't think about Marc or Steven.

The second-floor window sat open a crack, probably for ventilation. Layla wedged her fingers beneath the frame and pushed. It slid upward with barely a whisper.

She tumbled inside, landing in a crouch on tile floor. An empty corridor stretched before her, dim emergency lighting casting everything in yellow. Doors lined both sides, all closed.

Which one held Steven?

Footsteps echoed from somewhere below. Voices in French and Chinese, casual conversation between cult members. Layla pressed against the wall, waiting for them to pass. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

The voices faded.

Layla crept forward, testing each door handle as she went. Locked. Locked. Storage closet. Locked.

A sound cut through the silence. Sharp, muffled. A yelp that transformed into a groan, the kind that came when pain overwhelmed every other instinct.

Layla's blood went cold.

She ran toward it, boots slapping tile. Stealth didn't matter anymore. The sound came again, louder now, followed by voices. One deep and commanding, the other higher pitched, pleading.

"I told you, I don't know where it is!" Steven's accent carried through a door at the corridor's end. "Please, I'm not lying, I'm just a gift shop employee!"

"Your friend took something that belongs to us." Harrow's voice, calm and measured. "Where would the god go?"

"I don't know where he’d go!"

The crack of flesh meeting flesh echoed. Steven cried out.

Layla's breath caught in her throat. She reached for the door handle, then stopped. Two guards stood inside at minimum, maybe more. Harrow himself. She couldn't fight them all.

Think. There had to be another way.

A window sat opposite the door, overlooking an interior courtyard. Layla crossed to it, peering down. A fire escape zigzagged down the building's face, rusted but intact. Below, the courtyard sat empty except for a few scattered crates.

Steven's voice rose again, cracking. "I swear on my mum, I don't know where the ushabti is!"

"Your friend does." Harrow's cane tapped against floor. "He left you here. What does that tell you about his priorities?"

Steven sounded close to tears. “He’s no friend of mine!"

Layla's fingers tightened on the windowsill. Every instinct screamed at her to kick down that door, consequences be damned. But charging in blind would get them both killed. Or worse, captured.

She forced herself to breathe. 

The courtyard below was her best bet. If she could reach Steven, get him to that window, it could work.

Another impact. Steven's sharp intake of breath, the scrape of chair legs against concrete.

"You're protecting someone who abandoned you." Harrow's cane struck the floor again, rhythmic and deliberate. "The god took what he needed and ran. Left you to face the consequences alone."

"He didn’t!" Steven's protest dissolved into a wet cough. “He’ll come back for me."

Layla backed away from the door. Harrow wouldn't kill Steven, not yet. Not until he got what he wanted. But she imagined that he wasn’t happy, having been so close to his goal only to have it ripped away. 

Layla shoved the window up, wincing at the scrape of wood against the frame. The fire escape rattled under her weight, flakes of rust drifting into darkness below.

She moved down, boots finding purchase on corroded metal. Each step brought a creak, a groan. The structure swayed. Decades of neglect had eaten through bolts and joints, leaving everything precarious.

Don't look down. Don't think about the drop.

Steven's voice carried through an open window just ahead. "I told you everything I know! Please, I'm just- I'm nobody, I sell bloody postcards for minimum wage!"

Layla crouched, walking faster. The fire escape shuddered, a bolt popping free somewhere above. Metal shrieked against brick.

She froze.

Inside the building, conversation stopped. Footsteps approached the window where Steven was being held.

Layla pressed against the wall, making herself small. A guard's silhouette appeared in the window frame, backlit by interior lights. He leaned out, scanning the courtyard below. His gaze swept past the fire escape without stopping.

Then the guard withdrew.

Layla released her breath in a slow, controlled stream. She waited five heartbeats before moving again. 

The interrogation dragged on. Harrow's questions cycled through the same territory. Where did Anubis go, who was he working with, what were his plans for the ushabti. Steven's answers never changed, just variations of "I don't know" delivered with increasing desperation.

Layla clung to the fire escape, muscles burning. Minutes crawled past. Her thighs trembled from holding the crouch, fingers going numb against rusted metal.

"We're wasting time." Harrow's cane struck floor one final time. “We'll continue this conversation when he's more amenable to cooperation."

"Yes, sir." A guard's response, crisp and obedient.

Chair legs scraped. Steven made a sound, half-protest, half-whimper. "Wait, please, I'm telling the truth!"

"I know you are." Harrow's voice grew distant, already moving toward the door. "That's what makes this so unfortunate. You genuinely don't know where your friend went. Which means you're useless to me until the god decides you're worth retrieving."

Footsteps receded down the corridor. Just one set, the sound of crunching glass accompanying each step. Harrow’s distinctive uneven gait. A door opened, then closed with a metallic clang that echoed through the building.

Silence settled.

Layla counted to sixty before moving. The fire escape groaned as she shifted weight, testing each step. She reached the window where Steven had been questioned and peered inside.

The room stretched narrow and bare, concrete walls stained with water damage and age. A single fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, casting light across cheap folding furniture. Two guards sat at a card table near the far wall. A man scrolling through his phone, a woman beside him doing the same. Neither looked particularly alert.

Steven slumped in a chair bolted to the floor, wrists bound behind him with zip ties. Blood trickled from his split lip, and his left eye had already started to swell. His head hung forward, chin nearly touching his chest.

Layla's jaw clenched.

She tested the window. Unlocked, cracked open about two inches. The guards hadn't bothered securing it after checking the fire escape. Sloppy.

Her fingers wrapped around the frame. She counted heartbeats, watching the guards' patterns. The man thumbed through what looked like a social media feed, occasionally showing his companion something that made her snort. Neither had glanced at Steven in the past three minutes.

Layla pulled the window wider, inch by careful inch. The mechanism stuck halfway, metal grinding against itself.

The female guard's head snapped up.

No time left.

Layla launched herself through the opening. Glass shattered as her boot connected with the remaining pane. She hit the floor rolling, then came up in a crouch between the guards and their prisoner.

The man fumbled for his weapon. Layla drove her elbow into his throat before his fingers reached the holster. He made a wet choking sound, hands flying to his crushed windpipe.

The woman had better reflexes. Her gun cleared leather as she backed away, creating distance. "Don't move!"

Layla kicked the card table. It flipped, the edge catching the woman in the stomach. Air rushed from her lungs. The gun discharged, bullet punching through ceiling tiles. Dust rained down.

Layla closed the gap. She grabbed the woman's wrist, twisted hard. Bone cracked. The gun clattered across concrete. The woman screamed, high and piercing.

A fist connected with Layla's kidney from behind. The male guard, recovered enough to fight. Pain exploded through her side, dropping her to one knee.

She twisted, then swept his legs. He went down hard, skull bouncing off concrete with a sound like a coconut splitting. He didn't get back up.

The female guard scrambled for the fallen weapon, cradling her broken wrist against her chest. Layla dove, fingers closing around the gun first. She reversed her grip and brought the butt down on the woman's temple. Once. Twice.

The guard collapsed.

Silence crashed back in, broken only by Layla's harsh breathing and the fluorescent's persistent buzz.

"Layla?" Steven's voice cracked around the syllables. He'd lifted his head, his good eye wide and disbelieving. “What… how did you?"

"Later." Layla shoved the gun into her waistband and crossed to him. She pulled a tactical knife from her boot, sawing through the zip ties. "Can you walk?"

"I think so. Yeah." The ties snapped free. Steven brought his hands around front, wincing as circulation returned. Red welts circled both wrists where the plastic had cut into his skin. "They took Marc's phone. And my wallet."

"We'll replace them. Come on." Layla hauled him upright by his elbow. He swayed, knees buckling. She caught him, supporting his weight. "Steven, I need you to walk, okay? Can you help me?"

"Yeah, yeah I can walk." Steven took a shaky step, then another. His breathing came ragged, each inhale catching on what might be cracked ribs. "Where's Anubis? Did he get away with the ushabti?"

"He got away." Layla didn't elaborate. She steered Steven toward the window, glass crunching beneath their boots. "We're taking the fire escape."

Footsteps pounded down the corridor outside. Multiple sets, running fast. Shouting in English, French, Japanese, voices overlapping in a cacophony of languages.

"They heard the gunshot." Steven's face went pale beneath the bruising. "We're not going to make it."

The door burst open. Three guards flooded through, weapons drawn. Layla shoved Steven behind her, reaching for the stolen gun.

Wind howled through the room.

The temperature dropped twenty degrees in an instant. Frost crept across concrete walls, spreading like living vines. The fluorescent tube flickered, then died, plunging everything into darkness broken only by moonlight streaming through the broken window.

A shape materialized between Layla and the guards. Massive, skeletal, wrapped in ancient linens that moved without wind. The skull of an ibis caught what little light remained, eye sockets burning with a fury.

"Khonshu?" Steven's voice climbed an octave. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your pathetic mortal hide." The god's voice resonated through the room, through bones and marrow. "Again."

The first guard opened fire. Bullets passed through Khonshu's form like smoke, embedding themselves in the wall behind him. The second and third followed suit, muzzle flashes strobing in the dark.

Khonshu raised one skeletal hand.

Moonlight solidified into something physical, tangible. It wrapped around the guards like chains, lifting them off the ground. They struggled, weapons clattering to the floor. The light constricted, squeezing until consciousness fled. Their bodies crumpled when Khonshu released them.

"Move." The god turned his skull toward the window. "More are coming."

"I can't climb like this." Steven gestured at himself, swaying on his feet. Blood still dripped from his split lip. "I can barely stand."

Khonshu's skull tilted, considering. "You require my gift."

"No." Steven backed away, hands raised. "No, but the gods separated us, yeah? And I imagine they’ll be pretty cross with me already when they catch up."

"You misunderstand." Moonlight gathered around Khonshu's form, growing brighter. "I offer temporary strength. Enough to escape. Nothing more."

"I don't trust you."

"I care not for your trust, worm." Khonshu's voice dropped to something almost gentle, almost concerned. "But the jackal called. He told me you suffered. And I find I cannot ignore that obligation."

Layla's head snapped toward the god. "Anubis called you?"

"The god possesses more conscience than sense." Khonshu extended his hand toward Steven. "He secured the ushabti but could not live with abandoning you. A weakness I have chosen to indulge.” 

Steven stared at the skeletal hand. "He really called?"

"Accept or refuse. But decide quickly." Khonshu's head turned toward the door. "They approach."

Steven's jaw worked. He closed his eyes, then reached out. His fingers passed through Khonshu's hand.

Moonlight exploded outward.

It wrapped around Steven's body, solidifying into white bandages and armor. The suit materialized piece by piece, covering torn clothes and broken skin. His posture straightened, pain erased by divine intervention. When he opened his eyes, they glowed silver.

"Go." Khonshu faded to transparency. "My gift lasts until sunrise. Use it wisely."

The white suit clung to Steven like a second skin, the fabric humming with borrowed power. He flexed his fingers.

"This is mental." His voice came steadier now, pain buried beneath Khonshu's gift. "Absolutely mental."

Layla grabbed his arm. "We need to move. Now."

More footsteps thundered through the corridor. The door frame splintered as someone threw their weight against it from outside. Wood cracked, hinges groaning.

Steven moved to the window without hesitation. The fire escape swayed under his weight but held. He turned, reaching back for Layla. "Come on!"

She followed, boots finding purchase on rust-eaten metal. The structure shuddered, bolts popping free from brick. Below, the courtyard lights blazed to life. Cult members poured through doors, faces upturned, weapons raised.

"Jump!" Steven grabbed the railing and vaulted over, his body twisting in mid-air. He landed in a crouch twenty feet down, the suit absorbing impact that should have shattered both his legs.

Layla stared down at the drop. It wasa too far. Even with the suit, Steven had divine protection she lacked.

"Trust me!" Steven positioned himself below, arms outstretched. "I'll catch you!"

Gunfire erupted. Bullets pinged off the fire escape, sparking against metal. One grazed Layla's shoulder, the fabric of her shirt tearing. She felt the burn before the pain registered.

She didn’t have much of a choice. She jumped.

Wind screamed past her ears. The courtyard rushed up, concrete promising broken bones and worse. Steven's hands caught her mid-fall. They tumbled together, rolling across pavement.

Behind them, portals split the courtyard walls.

Light poured through fractures in reality, brilliant and strong. The air itself screamed as divinity forced passage through concrete and brick.

Osiris stepped through first, his avatar's body moving with grace that didn't match the man’s expression. He looked like wrath embodied. Behind him came Isis, then Horus followed, Tefnut, and Hathor. 

Cult members scattered, chaos making it hard to follow where anyone was. The members trained their guns on the gods, switching between Steven and Layla and then the figures who’d just appeared through the walls.

"Where's Anubis?" Osiris's voice was sharp and measured, each syllable clipped.

Steven scrambled to his feet, pulling Layla up beside him. The suit gave him confidence he wouldn’t have had otherwise to confront the god. "He left! Took the ushabti and ran off hours ago!"

The compound's main doors burst open. Harrow emerged flanked by a dozen armed members, his cane clicking against concrete with each measured step. He took in the scene, his expression shifting from surprise to something colder, more calculating.

"Well." Harrow's gaze swept across the assembled deities, lingering on Osiris. "This is unexpected. The great gods descending to deal with such mundane matters."

Osiris turned, and the temperature dropped. "Where is my son?"

"I assume you mean the young man that accompanied Steven?" Harrow gestured vaguely toward the city beyond the compound walls. "He fled. Took something that didn't belong to him and vanished into the night."

"The ushabti belongs to no one," Isis said, her voice cutting through the tension. "Certainly not to Ammit's disciples."

Harrow's jaw tightened, the only sign he'd registered the insult. His followers shifted, weapons still trained on Steven and Layla. "Your son broke into my property, assaulted my followers, and stole an artifact we've spent years searching for. I believe that gives me certain rights."

"You have no rights before us." Horus stepped forward, arrogance radiating from every movement. "You're human. We could unmake you with a thought."

"Perhaps." Harrow's fingers adjusted their grip on his cane. "But you won't. The scales demand balance. You murder me without cause, without judgment, and the cosmic order fractures."

Osiris frowned. “We will take Steven and leave. This matter is concluded."

"I'm afraid I can't allow that." Harrow's cane struck concrete, the sound echoing across the courtyard. "Steven Grant broke into my compound alongside your son. They committed crimes together. The scales demand balance."

"Steven was kidnapped," Layla snapped. “You tortured him!"

"A convenient story." Harrow's smile didn't reach his eyes. "But you have no proof. My followers will testify otherwise. They'll say he came willingly, searching for the ushabti with the other god."

“You dare threaten our authority?"

"I dare nothing." Harrow remained still, unbothered by the display. "I simply state facts. Your son stole from me. Steven aided him. The old laws demand justice."

"We are not subject to mortal laws," Horus said.

"No, but your son's avatar is. And so is Steven." Harrow's gaze shifted to Steven, calculating. "That body belongs to a man named Marc Spector. An American citizen with quite the criminal record. Assault, murder, theft. The list goes on."

Isis moved beside her husband, her expression icy. "What do you want?"

“It’s quite simple." Harrow's fingers tightened around his cane. "The ushabti. Return what was stolen, and Steven walks free. No charges, no complications. Everyone leaves satisfied."

“Absolutely not," Steven said.

“Then I’m afraid I have no choice but to refuse,” Harrow said.

Osiris sighed. He looked tired. “You will obey us, Arthur Harrow. We will not take no for an answer, and we will not leave without Steven Grant in our custody."

“I’m sure you’d prefer to avoid bloodshed,” Arthur said cooly.

Osiris's expression darkened. “You know we cannot give you the ushabti."

“Pity. If only there were something more you could offer."

Osiris’s eyes narrowed at the man, taking him in. Reading him. 

“We don’t negotiate with mortals,” Horus snapped. But Osiris held up his hand to silence him.

“Very well. You have my word, we will negotiate terms. Give me Steven and I will reward you with whatever great prize it is you seek."

Harrow nodded once, a small smile appearing on his lips. “Excellent. See, now that wasn’t so hard.” He motioned to his followers and they lowered their guns, allowing Steven to move.

Osiris held his hand out for him but Steven didn’t move.

Steven stared at Osiris's outstretched hand. "What did you just agree to?"

"Nothing you need concern yourself with." Osiris's hand remained extended, patient. "Come, Steven. We're leaving."

"You just made a deal with him. With Harrow." Steven's voice climbed higher. "He's trying to free Ammit! Whatever he wants from you can't be good!"

"I said it doesn't concern you."

"The hell it doesn't!" Steven backed away, putting Layla between himself and the god. "You're bartering something away to a nutter who tortures people in his spare time!"

Harrow's smile widened, satisfaction bleeding through his controlled expression. 

"There's nothing to discuss." Osiris's gaze never left Steven. "I made my choice. Now you'll make yours. Come willingly or I'll carry you out myself."

The courtyard fell silent except for the buzz of security lights and Harrow's followers shifting their weight, weapons still lowered but ready.

Steven grit his teeth. 

"No." Steven planted his feet, the suit giving him strength he didn't naturally possess. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

Osiris's jaw tightened. "This isn't a negotiation."

"Seems like you're good at those though, aren't you?" Steven gestured wildly at Harrow. "Making deals with psychopaths, promising god knows what."

"Enough." Osiris stepped forward.

Steven bolted.

The suit carried him faster than human legs should move but it wasn’t enough. He made it three steps before Osiris's hand closed around him. The god's grip felt like iron, immovable.

"Let me go!" Steven thrashed, trying to wrench free. The suit's strength meant nothing against divine power. "I won't go back to the Duat!"

Osiris hauled him backward, ignoring the struggle. "You don't have a choice."

"Like hell I don't!" Steven kicked out, his boot connecting with Osiris's shin. The impact jarred through his leg, the god unmoved. "Layla, help!"

Layla surged forward, but Isis moved between them. "Don't interfere, child.” When Layla tried to push past her, the god used her magic to freeze her in place, immobilizing her.

A portal ripped open behind Osiris, the Duat's warm light spilling into the courtyard. Wind howled through the tear in reality, carrying desert sand and moonlight.

"No, no, no!" Steven grabbed the nearest solid object, fingers closing around a drainpipe. Metal groaned under his enhanced grip. "Please, I don’t want to go back!"

Osiris pried his fingers loose, peeling them away one by one. The drainpipe tore free from the wall, clattering across concrete. "We'll discuss this when you've calmed down."

“I am calm! I'm perfectly bloody calm!" Steven's voice cracked, panic bleeding through. He grabbed for anything. Osiris's suit jacket, the portal's edge, empty air. Nothing slowed their progress. “You can’t just kidnap me!"

Osiris shifted his grip, bending slightly. One arm hooked behind Steven's knees while the other wrapped around his waist. He straightened, lifting Steven clean off the ground.

“Wh- Put me down!" Steven hammered his fists against Osiris's back, the suit-enhanced strikes landing with enough force to crack concrete. The god didn't even flinch. "This is kidnapping! You can’t do this!"

Osiris adjusted Steven's weight, settling him more securely over his shoulder. Steven's legs kicked uselessly, finding only air.

"Stop this." Osiris's free hand clamped down on Steven's thighs, pinning them. "You're making a spectacle."

"Good! Let everyone see what you really are!" Steven twisted, trying to get leverage. His fingers scrabbled against the god's shoulders, the suit's strength meaning nothing when gravity worked against him. "A bully who snatches people when they don't obey!"

The portal's edge brushed Steven's dangling hand. The Duat called, patient and inevitable.

"No, please!" Steven's voice broke. He grabbed for the portal's frame, trying to anchor himself. The light slipped through his grip like water. “Don't take me back there!"

Osiris stepped through.

Reality shifted. The compound's harsh lights and concrete gave way to the endless Nile and Osiris’s beautiful sanctuary. 

The portal sealed shut behind them with a sound like a book closing.

Steven went limp, the fight draining out of him all at once. He hung over Osiris's shoulder like a sack of grain, arms dangling. "I hate you."

"You'll get over it." Osiris's oxfords echoed on the floors of the sanctuary, each step measured and unhurried. "Eventually."

Osiris navigated through the structure's corridors, Steven's weight barely registering on his shoulder. The young man had gone silent, only his ragged breathing breaking the quiet punctuated by each footfall.

Finally they reached Steven's room. Or really Marc’s room, but they both used it. Osiris pushed the door open with his free hand, then crossed to the bed in measured strides. He bent, lowering Steven onto the mattress with surprising gentleness.

Steven scrambled backward the instant he touched the sheets, pressing himself against the headboard. “Don't touch me."

"You need rest." Osiris straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. "You've been through an ordeal."

"I don't want to rest. I want to leave."

"That's not happening."

Steven's hands curled into fists against his thighs, the white suit still clinging to his frame. "You can't keep me prisoner here."

"I'm not keeping you prisoner. I'm keeping you safe." Osiris moved to the window, adjusting the curtains. Moonlight filtered through, casting dark patterns across the floor. "Harrow would have destroyed you searching for information about the ushabti's location."

“Thank you, really. But I’ll be on my way now, yeah?"

Osiris moved back to the bed in an instance, his fingers wrapping around Steven's ankle before he could swing his legs off the bed. The grip felt like stone, immovable.

"I said no."

Steven kicked with his free leg, the suit lending him strength that should've broken a mortal's hold. Osiris caught that ankle too, then yanked hard.

Steven's back hit the mattress, air rushing from his lungs. His head bounced against the pillow. "Get off!"

"You're not leaving this room." Osiris pressed both ankles down, pinning Steven's legs. "Not tonight. Not until you've rested."

"I don't need rest!" Steven tried to sit up, his abdominal muscles straining against the god's weight. He made it halfway before Osiris's free hand planted itself in the center of his chest, shoving him back down as he now knelt on the bed with one knee.

"Stop fighting me."

"Stop kidnapping me!"

Osiris's jaw tightened. His eyes flared and in a single movement he reached up and pressed a finger to Steven's temple, knocking him out with his godly magic. He didn’t like using his powers on mortals but sometimes it was necessary. Steven was out cold, his mouth hanging open as he now slept soundly. As if he hadn’t just been thrashing and fighting mere seconds ago.

With steady hands, Osiris lifted Steven up and tucked him into the bed, pulling the blankets over him. He dissolved the gift of Khonshu’s suit, revealing what really lay beneath. A broken and battered man.

Steven's lip was split, his eye was swollen, and his wrist looked broken. He probably had a few broken ribs too, judging from the way he was wheezing while he slept.

Osiris rose to his full height, taking a deep breath. He’d need a healer to look at him, one who could meet them where they were in the Duat. Thankfully he knew just the person. 

[rosesofred7]

Putnam Psychiatric Hospital ch. 9

Artist/Author: rosesofred  Title: Putnam Psychiatric Hospital Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU, original story Summary:  Notes & Warnings: Links:

The silence was overwhelming. Steven sat with his wrists bound to a pipe, across from Anubis who was also tied up to a radiator. He didn’t know what to say. What do you say to someone you failed to escape and save the world with?

Arthur had the ushabti now, they utterly failed in their mission. Maybe they should’ve been more prepared, or found a way to get backup, or convinced Osiris and the rest of the ennead that Arthur really was a danger. Well, they definitely knew now, at least.

The door creaked open, harsh fluorescent light spilling into the dim storage room. Steven squinted against the brightness, making out the silhouette of one of Harrow's followers. A woman with grey-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun.

She carried two plastic bottles of water, moving calmly. Her sandals scuffed against the concrete floor as she approached Steven first, unscrewing the cap.

"Thirsty?"

Steven's throat felt like sandpaper. He hadn't realized how parched he was until that moment, but accepting anything from these people made his stomach turn. He turned his head away.

"Suit yourself." The woman's voice held no malice, just bland indifference. She moved toward Anubis, extending the bottle. "What about you?"

Anubis stared at her, his expression unreadable. The god said nothing, his dark eyes tracking her movements with predatory focus.

"Both stubborn, then." She set the unopened bottles on a nearby shelf, within sight but out of reach. "You'll change your minds soon enough. People always do."

Steven shifted against the pipe, metal biting into his wrists. The zip ties had already rubbed his skin raw. He watched the woman check her watch. A cheap digital thing that seemed at odds with Harrow's whole ancient-god aesthetic.

"It's time for lunch anyway. The others are gathering now." She adjusted her simple linen tunic, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. "Arthur wants everyone present for the meal. We're celebrating, you see."

"Celebrating what?" The words escaped Steven before he could stop them. "The end of the world?"

She smiled, beatific and unsettling. "The beginning of judgment. Balance restored." Her gaze shifted between them. "You could've been part of it. Arthur extended his hand to both of you."

"Yeah, well." Steven's laugh came out bitter. "We're not really into murdering kids."

The woman's smile didn't waver. "We don't murder. We judge. There's a difference." She moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "I'll be back soon with lunch. We’re not cruel, you know."

The door clicked shut behind her, plunging them back into semi-darkness.

Steven let his head fall back against the pipe. The metal felt cool against his skull, a small mercy in the stale air of the storage room. He glanced toward Anubis, who remained statue-still.

"You alright?"

"I'm tied to a radiator by mortals," Anubis said flatly. "No, I'm not alright."

Twenty minutes crawled by. Maybe thirty. Steven had lost track of time without his phone. The zip ties dug deeper into his wrists with every small movement. He tried shifting position, but the pipe offered no give.

The door swung open again. This time the woman had reinforcements. Two men in matching tunics, both built like brick walls. One carried a tray with two bowls, steam rising from whatever was inside. The other held a wooden baton loosely at his side.

"Lunch," the woman announced cheerfully. She gestured to the man with the tray. "Rice and lentils. Grown in our own gardens."

"We're not eating anything from you lot," Steven said.

The woman crouched beside him, picking up one of the bowls. She scooped a spoonful and brought it to her own lips, swallowing deliberately. "See? Not poisoned. Arthur needs you alive." 

"Needs us alive for what exactly?" Steven watched the steam curl from the bowl.

The woman set the spoon down with a soft clink. "That's between you and Arthur." She pulled a small knife from her pocket, the blade catching the light. "But first, you need to eat. Can't have you passing out from hunger."

She moved toward Steven, and he tensed. The blade sliced through the zip ties in one smooth motion. Blood rushed back into his hands, pins and needles dancing across his palms. He rubbed his wrists, wincing at the raw, reddened skin.

The woman crossed to Anubis next. "Your turn."

Anubis didn't move as she cut him free. His hands fell to his sides, but he made no move to rub circulation back into them. The god simply stared ahead, jaw tight.

"There." The woman pocketed the knife and gestured to the two guards by the door. They shifted their stance, the one with the baton tapping it lightly against his thigh. "Don't try anything. Eat."

She placed a bowl in front of each of them, then retreated to stand beside the guards. Three sets of eyes watched them. Waiting.

Steven picked up the plastic spoon beside his bowl. The rice and lentils looked plain enough. His stomach cramped at the sight of food, hunger warring with disgust. When was the last time he'd eaten? He’d been up all night and day now with nothing to eat.

His hands shook as he scooped up a spoonful. The taste was bland, underseasoned, but warm. He swallowed.

Anubis picked up his spoon slowly He scooped lentils and rice, brought the spoon to his lips. His jaw moved, throat working in what looked like a swallow. Then he reached for another spoonful.

Steven ate mechanically, each bite settling heavy in his stomach. The guards shifted by the door, bored now that their charges were complying. The woman checked her watch again, apparently satisfied with the scene before her.

Something nagged at Steven's peripheral vision. He glanced sideways at Anubis, caught the god mid-motion. Spoon to mouth, jaw moving, but-

There. A faint shimmer in the air between spoon and lips. Barely visible, like heat waves off summer pavement. The food vanished before it touched Anubis's mouth. The god's throat moved in a phantom swallow, perfectly timed. Performance art for their captors.

Steven's hand tightened on his own spoon. He kept eating, forcing himself not to stare. The guards hadn't noticed anything. The woman scrolled through her phone now, glancing up occasionally to monitor them.

Anubis continued the charade. Scoop, raise, shimmer, disappear. His face remained expressionless, giving nothing away. Steven wondered where the food went. Some pocket dimension? Scattered into atoms? Did it even matter?

How long had Anubis been doing this? The question gnawed at him. Had Anubis been faking eating the whole time he’d been in the Duat with him? How did Osiris not know?

Steven scraped the bottom of his bowl, forcing down the last few grains of rice. The bland taste coated his tongue, sticking in his throat. Across from him, Anubis set his spoon down carefully, the bowl now empty.

The woman glanced up from her phone, eyebrows lifting. “See I knew you were hungry."

She gestured to the guards, and one stepped forward to collect the bowls. His meaty hands stacked them, wood clattering against silver.

Steven handed his over without resistance. His stomach churned, either from the food or the situation. Probably both.

The woman pocketed her phone and pulled out fresh zip ties from somewhere in her tunic. "Hands behind your back. Both of you."

Steven's chest tightened. The brief freedom had made the confinement worse somehow. He shifted onto his knees, awkward without his hands for balance. The concrete bit into his kneecaps through his trousers.

The guard with the baton moved behind him first. Rough hands grabbed Steven's wrists, yanking them together. The plastic zip tie bit into already raw skin, and Steven hissed through his teeth.

"Too tight?"

"Yes, actually."

The guard pulled it tighter. Click, click, click. Steven's fingers went numb almost immediately.

Anubis remained motionless as the second guard approached. He offered his wrists without being asked, face blank as a death mask. The guard secured him to the radiator again, then stepped back.

The woman surveyed them both, apparently satisfied. "Arthur will send for you when he's ready. Until then, behave yourselves." She turned toward the door, guards falling in behind her. "Oh, and there's a guard posted outside. Just in case you get any ideas."

The door swung shut. Lock tumbled into place with a heavy clunk.

Steven slumped against the pipe, exhaustion crashing over him in waves. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving him hollow and shaking. His wrists throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

"You didn't eat," he said quietly. "Not really."

Anubis didn't look at him. "No."

"How long have you been doing that?"

The god's jaw tightened. "Does it matter?"

“Yeah, it kind of does."

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Outside, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Someone laughed. Normal sounds from very not-normal people.

Steven watched Anubis's profile, the sharp line of his jaw catching the dim light filtering through the high window. The god still wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Weeks," Anubis said finally, his voice flat. "I've been doing it for weeks."

The admission hung in the stale air between them. Steven's stomach dropped, though he'd already suspected as much. Weeks of pretending, of elaborate illusions while everyone around him remained oblivious.

“Bloody hell." Steven shifted against the pipe, zip ties biting deeper. "Why?"

"That's not your concern.” Anubis's fingers flexed against the radiator pipe, knuckles going white. "Just don't tell Osiris."

The request caught Steven off guard. Not a command, despite Anubis being a literal god. An actual plea, quiet and desperate around the edges.

"You're asking me to lie to your dad?"

"I'm asking you to mind your own business." Anubis's voice hardened, but Steven caught the tremor underneath. "This is between me and my family."

Steven thought about Osiris, the ancient god who'd looked at Steven with something approaching fatherly concern during their brief interactions. The same god who'd adopted Anubis, who clearly cared about his sons despite Anubis’s own father betraying Osiris in the worst way possible.

"He's going to find out eventually."

"Then let it be eventually." Anubis finally turned his head, meeting Steven's gaze. His blue eyes held something raw, vulnerable. "Not now. Not from you. Please."

The 'please' did it. Steven had heard gods command, threaten, pontificate. He'd never heard one beg.

"Fine," Steven said. "I won't say anything."

Anubis's shoulders dropped fractionally, tension bleeding out. "Thank you."

“But why do you do it?” Steven asked, genuinely curious. He kind of got why Marc didn’t eat, it was all that deep psychology nonsense about control. But why would Anubis not eat? He probably had more control than he knew what to do with.

Anubis's jaw worked, grinding his teeth. His gaze drifted to the high window, watching dust motes spiral through the thin shaft of light.

"My avatar is mentally ill," he said finally, the words clipped. "Clinically depressed. Medicated. The whole mess."

Steven blinked. He hadn't expected that. "Oh."

Anubis's fingers curled tighter around the radiator pipe. "When I'm in control, I feel it. All of it. The weight, the emptiness, the complete lack of..." He stopped, searching for words. "It's like drowning in nothing."

“Sorry, you don’t have to explain.” He said, regretting that he’d pushed.

The silence settled between them again, heavy with unspoken things. Steven studied the zip ties cutting into his wrists, wondering if escape was even possible. They'd failed once already. What made him think they could get out now?

A sharp crack echoed through the room.

Steven's head snapped up. Anubis stood, the severed zip tie dangling from one wrist. Blue energy crackled around his fingers, fading like dying embers.

"Wait, you could've done that the whole time?"

Anubis rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness. The zip tie fell to the concrete. "Obviously."

"Then why didn't you break us out earlier?"

"Because I wanted to see what they'd do first." Anubis moved toward the high window, footsteps silent despite the concrete floor. "Information gathering. You'd understand if you thought before speaking."

Steven bit back a retort. Getting into a row with the god who could actually free them seemed counterproductive. "Right. So what now?"

"Now I look outside." Anubis reached the wall, craning his neck to peer through the grimy glass. The window sat too high for a normal person to see through properly, but Anubis rose onto his toes, pressing his face close to the pane. "We need to know what we're dealing with."

"And what are we dealing with?"

"Quiet. Let me look."

Steven watched the god's profile, sharp against the dusty light. Anubis's jaw worked as he scanned whatever lay beyond the window. His fingers splayed against the concrete wall, blue light dancing across his knuckles before fading.

"Well?" Steven prompted after a moment.

"There's a courtyard. Maybe twenty metres across." Anubis shifted position, angling for a better view. “Plenty of people, some guards, some followers. Escaping through the window would be harder than by the door. Too many eyes."

Steven tested his own zip ties against the pipe, feeling the plastic dig deeper into his abraded skin. "Can you break mine?"

Anubis turned from the window, that unsettling blue glow still lingering in his eyes. He crossed the small space in three strides and knelt beside Steven. His fingers brushed Steven's wrists, surprisingly gentle. The zip ties snapped like paper.

"Cheers." Steven rubbed circulation back into his hands, wincing at the raw, angry welts circling both wrists. The relief was immediate and painful all at once.

"Don't thank me yet." Anubis stood, moving back toward the door. He pressed his ear against the wood, listening. "There's definitely someone out there. I can hear breathing. Footsteps every few minutes."

"One guard?"

"Sounds like it." Anubis's hand hovered over the door handle. Blue energy crackled around his palm, then died. "I could take them, but the noise would alert everyone else."

Steven pushed himself to his feet, legs shaky from sitting in one position for so long. His knees protested, joints popping as he stretched. "So we're stuck waiting for Arthur to send for us anyway."

"Unless you have a better idea."

Steven looked around the storage room. Metal shelving units lined one wall, mostly empty except for a few cardboard boxes. A broom leaned in the corner, useless as a weapon. The window remained their only other option, and Anubis had already dismissed that.

“Wait, can’t you just make a portal in the wall? I’ve seen the gods do that before. Do one here.” Steven pointed to the wall, a wide space with no obstructions.

“I can’t do that,” Anubis said flatly. “Any time I use my magic it alerts the gods. They’re probably already investigating the small magic I used to vanish my food and break the zip ties. Making a portal would be like making a giant neon sign advertising where we are."

“Oh.” Steven frowned. “So Osiris already has an idea of where we are?"

"He has a vague idea of the general area, but not specifics." Anubis crossed his arms. "Magic leaves traces, but it's not precise. Like hearing a sound somewhere in a crowded room. You know someone made noise, but pinpointing exactly where takes time."

Steven processed that. On one hand, Osiris knew something was happening. On the other, they were still trapped in a storage room with Harrow's followers between them and freedom.

He didn’t know if he wanted Osiris to rescue them or not. It seemed his only options were being possibly sacrificed by a mad cult leader or facing a god’s wrath. Neither options were ideal. “Right, then we escape,” Steven said finally.

Anubis raised an eyebrow. "Brilliant deduction. And how exactly do you propose we do that without alerting every follower in this compound?"

Steven paced the small space, mind racing through possibilities. The broom in the corner caught his eye again. "What if we lure the guard in here? You could knock them out, we take their clothes, blend in with the others."

"Blend in." Anubis's tone dripped scepticism. "You think we'll just walk out dressed in a tunic? There’s only one guard, so one set of clothes."

"You have a better plan?"

Anubis's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Steven took that as permission to continue.

"We make noise. Something that sounds concerning but not alarming. The guard comes in to check, you take them down quietly." Steven grabbed the broom, testing its weight. "We tie them up, then hide them in here."

"And when someone comes looking for their missing guard?"

"We'll be long gone by then." Steven set the broom down, moving toward the shelving unit. He gave it an experimental shove. The metal groaned but didn't topple. "Help me with this. If we tip it, that'll get their attention."

Anubis didn't move immediately. He studied Steven with those unsettling blue eyes, calculating. Finally, he crossed to the shelving unit.

"This is a terrible plan."

"Got a better one?"

Silence answered him. Anubis positioned himself at the opposite end of the shelving unit, fingers curling around the metal frame. Steven mirrored his stance.

"On three," Steven whispered. "One, two…"

They heaved. The shelving unit tilted, teetered on two legs, then crashed to the concrete with a deafening clang. Cardboard boxes tumbled, contents spilling across the floor. The noise echoed through the small room, making Steven's ears ring.

Both of them froze, listening.

Footsteps pounded outside the door. The lock clicked, tumbled. The door swung inward.

A young man in a tunic stepped through, eyes wide. "What the hell?"

Anubis moved like lightning. His fist connected with the guard's jaw before the man could finish his sentence. The guard crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Steven stared at the body sprawled across the threshold. "That was fast."

“Yeah, I’m not good at fighting. But I can throw a hell of a punch.” Anubis said. 

“I can see that.” Steven grabbed the guard and dragged him in, struggling with the weight.

Anubis shut the door, checking the hallway before he did. Steven knelt beside the unconscious guard, patting down his pockets. Keys, a mobile phone with a cracked screen, and a folded piece of paper with what looked like scripture written in shaky handwriting.

"Nothing useful." Steven tossed the phone aside and started working on the guard's tunic. The fabric pulled over the man's head with some effort, revealing a faded band t-shirt underneath. Very un-cult-like.

"We need to tie him up before he wakes." Anubis surveyed the room, spotting a roll of duct tape on one of the toppled shelves. He grabbed it, tearing off strips with his teeth.

Steven helped roll the guard onto his stomach. The man groaned, consciousness threatening to return. Anubis worked quickly, binding his wrists and ankles quickly. Another strip went across the mouth.

"That should hold him." Anubis stepped back, examining his handiwork.

Steven pulled the tunic over his own clothes. The fabric hung awkwardly on his frame, too big in the shoulders and too short in the legs. He looked ridiculous. "How do I look?"

"Like someone playing dress-up." Anubis dragged the bound guard behind the shelving unit, wedging him into the corner. "But it'll have to do."

"What about you?"

“I’ll try to stay hidden behind you,” Anubis said. “We don’t really have any other options."

Steven adjusted the tunic one more time, feeling exposed despite the extra layer of fabric. The bottom hem barely reached his knees, leaving his jeans and trainers visible underneath. Not exactly inconspicuous.

"Ready?" Anubis moved toward the door, hand hovering over the handle.

"Not really."

Anubis cracked the door open, peering into the hallway. Empty for now, though voices drifted from somewhere deeper in the compound. Laughter, casual conversation. Normal sounds from abnormal people.

They slipped into the corridor. Steven led, shoulders squared despite his racing pulse. The tunic swished around his legs with each step. Anubis stayed close behind, practically in Steven's shadow.

The hallway stretched ahead, doors lining both sides. Most were closed, but one stood ajar. Steven caught a glimpse of rows of beds inside, dormitory-style. More tunics hung from hooks on the wall.

Footsteps echoed from around the corner ahead.

Steven's heart lurched. He kept walking, forcing his pace to remain steady. Casual. Just another follower going about his day. Anubis's hand gripped his shoulder, steering him slightly to the left.

Two women rounded the corner, deep in conversation. They wore matching tunics, hair pulled back in identical braids. Neither looked up.

“-said the ceremony starts at sunset.” Said one.

“What do you think Ammit looks like?” Said the other.

They passed without a second glance.

Steven's breath came easier once they'd disappeared behind them. His hands shook, adrenaline making his fingers tingle. Anubis released his shoulder but stayed close.

"Which way?" Steven whispered.

"How should I know?" Anubis glanced at the doors they passed. "I've never been here before."

Fair point. Steven chose left at the next junction, following the slope of the floor. Buildings usually had exits on the ground level. Simple logic.

The voices grew louder as they walked. More followers appeared, moving with purpose. Steven nodded at a passing man who smiled in return as Anubis hid behind a door.

"There." Anubis pointed ahead but stayed behind the door.

Natural light spilled through a doorway at the end of the corridor. Not the harsh fluorescent kind, but actual sunlight. Steven's chest loosened slightly.

They were almost there.

A hand clamped down on Steven's shoulder from behind.

"Where are you headed, brother?"

Steven turned slowly. A broad-shouldered man with greying temples smiled down at him, but his eyes held suspicion.

Steven's mind raced, searching for something plausible. The man's grip tightened on his shoulder, fingers digging into muscle. Behind the door, Anubis remained motionless, barely visible in the shadows.

“Just trying to find Arthur. That I might have a chat, yeah?"

The man's smile widened, but the suspicion in his eyes didn't fade. His fingers dug deeper into Steven's shoulder, thumb pressing against bone.

"Arthur's preparing for the ceremony. He doesn't want to be disturbed." The man's head tilted, studying Steven's face with uncomfortable intensity. "I don't recognize you, brother. When did you join us?"

Steven's mouth went dry. Behind the door, he sensed Anubis tensing, ready to strike. But attacking this man would draw attention they couldn't afford.

"Recent, yeah. Still finding my way around the compound." Steven forced what he hoped looked like an embarrassed laugh. "Bit lost, if I'm honest."

The man's grip loosened fractionally, though his eyes still held doubt. "Recent convert." He repeated the words like he was testing their weight. "What's your name, brother?"

“Albert,” Steven said with a cringe.

“Albert." The man's free hand came up, stroking his grey-stubbled chin. "And who brought you to Ammit's light?"

"Someone named Marcus," Steven lied, plucking the first name that came to mind. "Met him in Cairo. He told me about Arthur, about balance and judgement."

The man's expression didn't change. His hand remained on Steven's shoulder, heavy as a stone. "Marcus. Don't know any Marcus in our family."

Bollocks.

"Maybe I got the name wrong," Steven said quickly. "I'm terrible with names, me. Could've been Martin? Michael?"

"Could've been a lot of things." The man's smile finally dropped. His fingers dug in again, bruising. "Here's what I think. I think you're not one of us at all."

Anubis stepped out from behind the door.

The man's eyes widened. He opened his mouth, probably to shout for help, but Anubis's fist connected with his temple first. The crack echoed down the corridor. The man's eyes rolled back, knees buckling.

Steven caught him before he hit the ground, staggering under the sudden weight. "Bloody hell, a bit of warning next time?"

"You were about to be discovered." Anubis grabbed the man's other arm, helping drag him toward the nearest door. "Warning seemed unnecessary."

They hauled the unconscious follower into what turned out to be a supply closet. Cleaning products lined metal shelves, the sharp smell of bleach burning Steven's nostrils. They propped the man against a wall, wedging him between a mop bucket and a stack of towels.

"We need to move. Now." Anubis checked the corridor, his jaw tight. "Someone will come looking for him eventually."

Steven stepped back into the hallway, tunic askew from the struggle. His shoulder throbbed where the man had gripped it. Down the corridor, the sunlit doorway still beckoned, freedom tantalizingly close.

“We need to get the ushabti before we can escape,” Steven said nervously.

Anubis's jaw tightened, blue light flickering in his eyes before dying. "That's not our problem anymore."

"Not our problem?" Steven's voice pitched higher than intended. "He's going to release Ammit. She'll kill thousands of people for crimes they haven't even committed yet."

“I should’ve listened to my father when he said they would handle it.” Anubis moved toward the sunlit doorway, footsteps silent against the tile. "We need to focus on getting out alive now."

Steven grabbed his arm, forcing the god to stop. "The same Ennead that refused to believe us? That banished Khonshu and left us to deal with Harrow alone?"

Anubis pulled his arm free, expression hardening. "That's not my concern. I'm not dying in this compound because you have a hero complex."

"This isn't about being a hero." Steven's hands curled into fists at his sides. "This is about innocent people. Children. People who've done nothing wrong except exist in a world where Ammit gets to judge them."

"Then let the gods handle it." Anubis turned back toward the exit. "My job is weighing hearts of the dead. Not saving living humans from their own stupidity."

"Your avatar would care."

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and deliberate. Anubis froze mid-step, shoulders going rigid. When he turned back, something dangerous flickered across his face.

His voice dropped low, warning. "Don't bring my avatar into this."

Steven held his ground despite every instinct screaming at him to back down. "You said you feel what they feel when you're in control. Depression, emptiness, all of it. You think they'd want to abandon people who need help?"

"My avatar is mentally ill." Anubis stepped closer, looming. "Their judgment is compromised by chemical imbalances and trauma. I'm not basing life-or-death decisions on their feelings."

"Maybe you should." Steven's voice steadied, conviction replacing fear. "Because right now, you're choosing to walk away while a madman releases an ancient god who'll slaughter people for crimes they might commit someday. That's not self-preservation. That's cowardice."

Anubis's hand shot out, gripping Steven's tunic and yanking him close. Blue energy crackled around his fingers, hot against Steven's chest. “Call me a coward again."

Steven's heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced himself to meet Anubis's glowing eyes. The god's fingers twisted in the tunic fabric, knuckles white with tension. Heat radiated from where the blue energy crackled between them.

"Let go of me."

Anubis released him with a shove, sending Steven stumbling back a step. The god's chest heaved, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped beneath his skin. For a moment, neither spoke. The compound's ambient noise filled the silence. Distant voices, footsteps, the hum of ventilation.

"Fine." Anubis bit out the word like it physically pained him. "We get the ushabti. But when this goes wrong, and it will go wrong, I'm leaving you behind. I’m not going back to the Duat."

Steven straightened his tunic, refusing to show how badly his hands shook. "Fair enough."

Anubis turned on his heel, moving back down the corridor away from the exit. His footsteps made no sound, godly grace making him practically float across the tile. Steven hurried to keep pace, hyperaware of how loudly his trainers squeaked with each step.

"We need to find out where Harrow's keeping it," Anubis said without looking back. "And we need to do it without alerting half the compound."

"Right." Steven's mind raced through possibilities. "Could try finding his quarters? He'd keep something that important close."

"Assuming he hasn't already moved it somewhere for the ceremony." Anubis paused at a junction, peering around the corner. "We're running out of time."

Two followers passed the intersection, their conversation floating back in fragments. They disappeared down another hallway, talking about dolphins of all things. Apparently they’re sentient, as one of them was insisting.

Anubis waited until their footsteps faded before moving forward. Steven followed, staying close to the wall. The tunic felt ridiculous now, too short and conspicuous. Anyone who looked closely would see through the disguise immediately.

"There." Anubis gestured ahead with his chin.

A door stood slightly ajar, warm lamplight spilling into the corridor. Unlike the other rooms they'd passed, this one had decorative carvings around the frame. Egyptian symbols, badly rendered but recognizable. Ankhs and eyes of Horus, mixed with hieroglyphs that made Steven's archaeologist brain cringe at their incorrectness.

"That's got to be Arthur's office," Steven whispered.

Anubis approached the door, pressing himself against the wall beside the frame. He listened, head tilted. After a moment, he shook his head. "Empty."

Steven's pulse quickened. They were about to break into Arthur Harrow's private office. The man who'd stolen the ushabti, who planned to release Ammit. If they were caught here, there'd be no talking their way out.

Anubis pushed the door open wider, peering inside before slipping through. Steven followed, pulling the door shut behind them with trembling fingers.

The office was surprisingly sparse. A desk sat in the center, its surface covered in papers and maps. Bookshelves lined one wall, crammed with texts on Egyptian mythology. Some looked ancient, others cheap mass-market paperbacks. A cot sat in the corner, sheets rumpled like Harrow had been sleeping here.

"Search quickly." Anubis moved to the desk, rifling through drawers. "We don't know when he'll return."

Steven headed for the bookshelves, scanning titles. Most were academic texts he recognized from university, mixed with fringe theories and conspiracy books. Nothing useful. He pulled books forward, checking behind them for hidden compartments.

Nothing.

"Anything?" he whispered.

Anubis shook his head, opening desk drawers one by one. The wood creaked with each pull, far too loud in the quiet room. Papers rustled as he searched. Maps unfolded, then were shoved back carelessly.

Steven moved to a trunk at the foot of the cot. The lid was unlocked, lifting easily. Inside, he found clothes. Tunics in various states of wear, sandals, a few personal items. A photograph tucked between layers of fabric caught his eye.

He pulled it free. A young Arthur Harrow stood in front of the Giza Pyramid, in a rare show of a smile. Before he met Khonshu and everything went wrong, apparently.

Steven tucked the photograph back between the tunics, his chest tight with something he couldn't name. Even monsters had histories. Even Harrow had been someone else once.

"Nothing here," Anubis muttered, slamming the last drawer shut. His fingers drummed against the desk surface, restless energy making them twitch. "Where would he keep it?"

"Maybe he's already moved it." Steven stood, knees protesting. "For the ceremony, like you said."

Anubis's jaw clenched. Blue light flickered around his pupils before dying. "Then we're wasting time."

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside.

Both of them froze. Steven's breath caught in his throat, every muscle tensing. The footsteps grew louder, purposeful. Heading straight for the office.

"Hide." Anubis grabbed Steven's arm, yanking him toward a narrow gap between two bookshelves.

They wedged themselves into the space just as the door swung open. Steven pressed his back against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. Through the gap between books, he watched Arthur Harrow enter.

The cult leader moved with deliberate calm, his cane clicking against the floor with each step. He carried a wooden box under one arm, carved with hieroglyphs that made Steven's skin crawl. The ushabti.

Harrow set the box on his desk, running his fingers across the lid almost reverently. "Balance," he murmured to himself. "Finally, balance."

Steven's heart hammered so loudly he was certain Harrow would hear it. Beside him, Anubis remained still, barely breathing. The god's fingers curled into fists, knuckles white with tension.

Harrow opened the box.

The ushabti sat nestled in purple silk, its surface gleaming in the lamplight. Ammit's prison, right there within reaching distance. So close Steven could almost touch it.

Harrow lifted it carefully, examining it from all angles. His lips moved in silent prayer or conversation. The glass beads woven into his shoes clinked softly with each small movement.

"Soon," Harrow whispered to the figurine. "Very soon, you'll be free. And the world will finally understand true justice."

He returned the ushabti to its silk bed, closing the box with a soft click. The sound seemed to echo through Steven's bones.

qHarrow moved toward the cot, box tucked under his arm. He settled onto the thin mattress, springs creaking beneath his weight. The box rested on his lap, both hands resting atop it protectively.

Steven's leg cramped. The awkward angle made his muscles scream, but moving would give them away. He gritted his teeth, willing his body to stay still.

Harrow's eyes drifted closed. His breathing deepened, evening out. The box rose and fell with each breath, precious cargo cradled against his chest.

Minutes crawled past. Steven counted heartbeats, trying to distract himself from the burning in his thigh. Beside him, Anubis shifted minutely, obviously cramping too.

Harrow's breathing stayed steady, deep and rhythmic. Asleep.

Anubis moved first, slipping from their hiding spot with preternatural silence. Steven followed more clumsily, his cramped leg nearly buckling. He caught himself on the bookshelf, wood groaning under his hand.

Harrow stirred. His head lolled to one side, lips parting. But his eyes stayed closed.

Steven froze, not daring to breathe. Anubis stood halfway across the room, caught between the bookshelf and the cot. One wrong sound would wake Harrow. One creak of floorboard, one rustle of clothing.

Anubis gestured sharply. Move.

Steven forced his protesting leg forward. Each step felt so loud despite his efforts. His trainers squeaked against tile. The tunic swished around his knees.

Anubis reached the cot. His hands hovered over the box, fingers spread. Blue energy crackled silently around his palms. He lifted the box from Harrow's chest with agonizing slowness, supporting its weight with both hands.

Harrow mumbled something unintelligible. His arms moved, reaching for the box that was no longer there. His hands found empty air, fingers grasping at Steven before closing around his tunic.

Steven's breath stopped entirely. Harrow's fingers twisted in the fabric of his tunic, grip tightening. The cult leader's eyes remained closed, face slack with sleep, but his hand held fast.

Anubis stood motionless three feet away, the box cradled against his chest. His eyes locked on Steven's, wide with alarm. The blue energy around his fingers flickered and died, extinguished.

Harrow's lips moved again, forming soundless words. His other hand reached up, patting along Steven's arm like a child searching for a stuffed animal in the dark.

Steven's heart hammered against his ribs. Moving would wake him. Staying put meant getting caught. The tunic pulled tighter as Harrow's fingers found better purchase.

"Ammit," Harrow breathed, still dreaming. His hand slid higher, finding Steven's shoulder.

Anubis took a silent step backward, then another. 

Anubis's eyes met Steven's one last time. Something flickered across his face. Guilt, maybe, or apology, but it vanished just as quickly as it appeared. The god took another step backward, the box secure against his chest.

Steven's mouth opened, forming silent words. Wait.

But Anubis had already turned toward the door. His movements stayed fluid, supernatural. Each step quiet, avoiding the creaky floorboards Steven had hit earlier. The door stood ajar, just as they'd left it.

Harrow's fingers dug deeper into Steven's shoulder, pulling him closer. "Balance," the cult leader murmured against Steven's tunic. "Finally..."

Steven watched helplessly as Anubis reached the doorway. The god paused there, hand on the frame. He didn't look back.

The door opened wider and Anubis slipped through. Then he was gone. 

Steven stood frozen, pinned by Harrow's sleeping grip. His mind raced through scenarios. Shove Harrow away and run? The man would wake, sound the alarm, and every follower in the compound would hunt him down within minutes.

Stay put and wait? For what? Harrow to wake naturally and find Steven standing over his cot like some creep?

The door swung shut with a whisper-soft click.

Harrow's breathing changed, growing shallower. His eyelids fluttered. Steven's stomach dropped as those too-calm eyes opened, focusing slowly on Steven's face.

“Bollocks.”

[rosesofred7]

Recovery ch. 9

Artist/Author: rosesofred  Title: Recovery Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU Summary: Anubis and Steven are captured and held hostage by Harrow and his followers. Only one of them manages to escape. Notes & Warnings: Violence Links:

The silence was overwhelming. Steven sat with his wrists bound to a pipe, across from Anubis who was also tied up to a radiator. He didn’t know what to say. What do you say to someone you failed to escape and save the world with?

Arthur had the ushabti now, they utterly failed in their mission. Maybe they should’ve been more prepared, or found a way to get backup, or convinced Osiris and the rest of the ennead that Arthur really was a danger. Well, they definitely knew now, at least.

The door creaked open, harsh fluorescent light spilling into the dim storage room. Steven squinted against the brightness, making out the silhouette of one of Harrow's followers. A woman with grey-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun.

She carried two plastic bottles of water, moving calmly. Her sandals scuffed against the concrete floor as she approached Steven first, unscrewing the cap.

"Thirsty?"

Steven's throat felt like sandpaper. He hadn't realized how parched he was until that moment, but accepting anything from these people made his stomach turn. He turned his head away.

"Suit yourself." The woman's voice held no malice, just bland indifference. She moved toward Anubis, extending the bottle. "What about you?"

Anubis stared at her, his expression unreadable. The god said nothing, his dark eyes tracking her movements with predatory focus.

"Both stubborn, then." She set the unopened bottles on a nearby shelf, within sight but out of reach. "You'll change your minds soon enough. People always do."

Steven shifted against the pipe, metal biting into his wrists. The zip ties had already rubbed his skin raw. He watched the woman check her watch. A cheap digital thing that seemed at odds with Harrow's whole ancient-god aesthetic.

"It's time for lunch anyway. The others are gathering now." She adjusted her simple linen tunic, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. "Arthur wants everyone present for the meal. We're celebrating, you see."

"Celebrating what?" The words escaped Steven before he could stop them. "The end of the world?"

She smiled, beatific and unsettling. "The beginning of judgment. Balance restored." Her gaze shifted between them. "You could've been part of it. Arthur extended his hand to both of you."

"Yeah, well." Steven's laugh came out bitter. "We're not really into murdering kids."

The woman's smile didn't waver. "We don't murder. We judge. There's a difference." She moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "I'll be back soon with lunch. We’re not cruel, you know."

The door clicked shut behind her, plunging them back into semi-darkness.

Steven let his head fall back against the pipe. The metal felt cool against his skull, a small mercy in the stale air of the storage room. He glanced toward Anubis, who remained statue-still.

"You alright?"

"I'm tied to a radiator by mortals," Anubis said flatly. "No, I'm not alright."

Twenty minutes crawled by. Maybe thirty. Steven had lost track of time without his phone. The zip ties dug deeper into his wrists with every small movement. He tried shifting position, but the pipe offered no give.

The door swung open again. This time the woman had reinforcements. Two men in matching tunics, both built like brick walls. One carried a tray with two bowls, steam rising from whatever was inside. The other held a wooden baton loosely at his side.

"Lunch," the woman announced cheerfully. She gestured to the man with the tray. "Rice and lentils. Grown in our own gardens."

"We're not eating anything from you lot," Steven said.

The woman crouched beside him, picking up one of the bowls. She scooped a spoonful and brought it to her own lips, swallowing deliberately. "See? Not poisoned. Arthur needs you alive." 

"Needs us alive for what exactly?" Steven watched the steam curl from the bowl.

The woman set the spoon down with a soft clink. "That's between you and Arthur." She pulled a small knife from her pocket, the blade catching the light. "But first, you need to eat. Can't have you passing out from hunger."

She moved toward Steven, and he tensed. The blade sliced through the zip ties in one smooth motion. Blood rushed back into his hands, pins and needles dancing across his palms. He rubbed his wrists, wincing at the raw, reddened skin.

The woman crossed to Anubis next. "Your turn."

Anubis didn't move as she cut him free. His hands fell to his sides, but he made no move to rub circulation back into them. The god simply stared ahead, jaw tight.

"There." The woman pocketed the knife and gestured to the two guards by the door. They shifted their stance, the one with the baton tapping it lightly against his thigh. "Don't try anything. Eat."

She placed a bowl in front of each of them, then retreated to stand beside the guards. Three sets of eyes watched them. Waiting.

Steven picked up the plastic spoon beside his bowl. The rice and lentils looked plain enough. His stomach cramped at the sight of food, hunger warring with disgust. When was the last time he'd eaten? He’d been up all night and day now with nothing to eat.

His hands shook as he scooped up a spoonful. The taste was bland, underseasoned, but warm. He swallowed.

Anubis picked up his spoon slowly He scooped lentils and rice, brought the spoon to his lips. His jaw moved, throat working in what looked like a swallow. Then he reached for another spoonful.

Steven ate mechanically, each bite settling heavy in his stomach. The guards shifted by the door, bored now that their charges were complying. The woman checked her watch again, apparently satisfied with the scene before her.

Something nagged at Steven's peripheral vision. He glanced sideways at Anubis, caught the god mid-motion. Spoon to mouth, jaw moving, but-

There. A faint shimmer in the air between spoon and lips. Barely visible, like heat waves off summer pavement. The food vanished before it touched Anubis's mouth. The god's throat moved in a phantom swallow, perfectly timed. Performance art for their captors.

Steven's hand tightened on his own spoon. He kept eating, forcing himself not to stare. The guards hadn't noticed anything. The woman scrolled through her phone now, glancing up occasionally to monitor them.

Anubis continued the charade. Scoop, raise, shimmer, disappear. His face remained expressionless, giving nothing away. Steven wondered where the food went. Some pocket dimension? Scattered into atoms? Did it even matter?

How long had Anubis been doing this? The question gnawed at him. Had Anubis been faking eating the whole time he’d been in the Duat with him? How did Osiris not know?

Steven scraped the bottom of his bowl, forcing down the last few grains of rice. The bland taste coated his tongue, sticking in his throat. Across from him, Anubis set his spoon down carefully, the bowl now empty.

The woman glanced up from her phone, eyebrows lifting. “See I knew you were hungry."

She gestured to the guards, and one stepped forward to collect the bowls. His meaty hands stacked them, wood clattering against silver.

Steven handed his over without resistance. His stomach churned, either from the food or the situation. Probably both.

The woman pocketed her phone and pulled out fresh zip ties from somewhere in her tunic. "Hands behind your back. Both of you."

Steven's chest tightened. The brief freedom had made the confinement worse somehow. He shifted onto his knees, awkward without his hands for balance. The concrete bit into his kneecaps through his trousers.

The guard with the baton moved behind him first. Rough hands grabbed Steven's wrists, yanking them together. The plastic zip tie bit into already raw skin, and Steven hissed through his teeth.

"Too tight?"

"Yes, actually."

The guard pulled it tighter. Click, click, click. Steven's fingers went numb almost immediately.

Anubis remained motionless as the second guard approached. He offered his wrists without being asked, face blank as a death mask. The guard secured him to the radiator again, then stepped back.

The woman surveyed them both, apparently satisfied. "Arthur will send for you when he's ready. Until then, behave yourselves." She turned toward the door, guards falling in behind her. "Oh, and there's a guard posted outside. Just in case you get any ideas."

The door swung shut. Lock tumbled into place with a heavy clunk.

Steven slumped against the pipe, exhaustion crashing over him in waves. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving him hollow and shaking. His wrists throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

"You didn't eat," he said quietly. "Not really."

Anubis didn't look at him. "No."

"How long have you been doing that?"

The god's jaw tightened. "Does it matter?"

“Yeah, it kind of does."

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Outside, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Someone laughed. Normal sounds from very not-normal people.

Steven watched Anubis's profile, the sharp line of his jaw catching the dim light filtering through the high window. The god still wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Weeks," Anubis said finally, his voice flat. "I've been doing it for weeks."

The admission hung in the stale air between them. Steven's stomach dropped, though he'd already suspected as much. Weeks of pretending, of elaborate illusions while everyone around him remained oblivious.

“Bloody hell." Steven shifted against the pipe, zip ties biting deeper. "Why?"

"That's not your concern.” Anubis's fingers flexed against the radiator pipe, knuckles going white. "Just don't tell Osiris."

The request caught Steven off guard. Not a command, despite Anubis being a literal god. An actual plea, quiet and desperate around the edges.

"You're asking me to lie to your dad?"

"I'm asking you to mind your own business." Anubis's voice hardened, but Steven caught the tremor underneath. "This is between me and my family."

Steven thought about Osiris, the ancient god who'd looked at Steven with something approaching fatherly concern during their brief interactions. The same god who'd adopted Anubis, who clearly cared about his sons despite Anubis’s own father betraying Osiris in the worst way possible.

"He's going to find out eventually."

"Then let it be eventually." Anubis finally turned his head, meeting Steven's gaze. His blue eyes held something raw, vulnerable. "Not now. Not from you. Please."

The 'please' did it. Steven had heard gods command, threaten, pontificate. He'd never heard one beg.

"Fine," Steven said. "I won't say anything."

Anubis's shoulders dropped fractionally, tension bleeding out. "Thank you."

“But why do you do it?” Steven asked, genuinely curious. He kind of got why Marc didn’t eat, it was all that deep psychology nonsense about control. But why would Anubis not eat? He probably had more control than he knew what to do with.

Anubis's jaw worked, grinding his teeth. His gaze drifted to the high window, watching dust motes spiral through the thin shaft of light.

"My avatar is mentally ill," he said finally, the words clipped. "Clinically depressed. Medicated. The whole mess."

Steven blinked. He hadn't expected that. "Oh."

Anubis's fingers curled tighter around the radiator pipe. "When I'm in control, I feel it. All of it. The weight, the emptiness, the complete lack of..." He stopped, searching for words. "It's like drowning in nothing."

“Sorry, you don’t have to explain.” He said, regretting that he’d pushed.

The silence settled between them again, heavy with unspoken things. Steven studied the zip ties cutting into his wrists, wondering if escape was even possible. They'd failed once already. What made him think they could get out now?

A sharp crack echoed through the room.

Steven's head snapped up. Anubis stood, the severed zip tie dangling from one wrist. Blue energy crackled around his fingers, fading like dying embers.

"Wait, you could've done that the whole time?"

Anubis rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness. The zip tie fell to the concrete. "Obviously."

"Then why didn't you break us out earlier?"

"Because I wanted to see what they'd do first." Anubis moved toward the high window, footsteps silent despite the concrete floor. "Information gathering. You'd understand if you thought before speaking."

Steven bit back a retort. Getting into a row with the god who could actually free them seemed counterproductive. "Right. So what now?"

"Now I look outside." Anubis reached the wall, craning his neck to peer through the grimy glass. The window sat too high for a normal person to see through properly, but Anubis rose onto his toes, pressing his face close to the pane. "We need to know what we're dealing with."

"And what are we dealing with?"

"Quiet. Let me look."

Steven watched the god's profile, sharp against the dusty light. Anubis's jaw worked as he scanned whatever lay beyond the window. His fingers splayed against the concrete wall, blue light dancing across his knuckles before fading.

"Well?" Steven prompted after a moment.

"There's a courtyard. Maybe twenty metres across." Anubis shifted position, angling for a better view. “Plenty of people, some guards, some followers. Escaping through the window would be harder than by the door. Too many eyes."

Steven tested his own zip ties against the pipe, feeling the plastic dig deeper into his abraded skin. "Can you break mine?"

Anubis turned from the window, that unsettling blue glow still lingering in his eyes. He crossed the small space in three strides and knelt beside Steven. His fingers brushed Steven's wrists, surprisingly gentle. The zip ties snapped like paper.

"Cheers." Steven rubbed circulation back into his hands, wincing at the raw, angry welts circling both wrists. The relief was immediate and painful all at once.

"Don't thank me yet." Anubis stood, moving back toward the door. He pressed his ear against the wood, listening. "There's definitely someone out there. I can hear breathing. Footsteps every few minutes."

"One guard?"

"Sounds like it." Anubis's hand hovered over the door handle. Blue energy crackled around his palm, then died. "I could take them, but the noise would alert everyone else."

Steven pushed himself to his feet, legs shaky from sitting in one position for so long. His knees protested, joints popping as he stretched. "So we're stuck waiting for Arthur to send for us anyway."

"Unless you have a better idea."

Steven looked around the storage room. Metal shelving units lined one wall, mostly empty except for a few cardboard boxes. A broom leaned in the corner, useless as a weapon. The window remained their only other option, and Anubis had already dismissed that.

“Wait, can’t you just make a portal in the wall? I’ve seen the gods do that before. Do one here.” Steven pointed to the wall, a wide space with no obstructions.

“I can’t do that,” Anubis said flatly. “Any time I use my magic it alerts the gods. They’re probably already investigating the small magic I used to vanish my food and break the zip ties. Making a portal would be like making a giant neon sign advertising where we are."

“Oh.” Steven frowned. “So Osiris already has an idea of where we are?"

"He has a vague idea of the general area, but not specifics." Anubis crossed his arms. "Magic leaves traces, but it's not precise. Like hearing a sound somewhere in a crowded room. You know someone made noise, but pinpointing exactly where takes time."

Steven processed that. On one hand, Osiris knew something was happening. On the other, they were still trapped in a storage room with Harrow's followers between them and freedom.

He didn’t know if he wanted Osiris to rescue them or not. It seemed his only options were being possibly sacrificed by a mad cult leader or facing a god’s wrath. Neither options were ideal. “Right, then we escape,” Steven said finally.

Anubis raised an eyebrow. "Brilliant deduction. And how exactly do you propose we do that without alerting every follower in this compound?"

Steven paced the small space, mind racing through possibilities. The broom in the corner caught his eye again. "What if we lure the guard in here? You could knock them out, we take their clothes, and blend in with the others."

"Blend in." Anubis's tone dripped scepticism. "You think we'll just walk out dressed in a tunic? There’s only one guard, so one set of clothes."

"You have a better plan?"

Anubis's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Steven took that as permission to continue.

"We make noise. Something that sounds concerning but not alarming. The guard comes in to check, you take them down quietly." Steven grabbed the broom, testing its weight. "We tie them up, then hide them in here."

"And when someone comes looking for their missing guard?"

"We'll be long gone by then." Steven set the broom down, moving toward the shelving unit. He gave it an experimental shove. The metal groaned but didn't topple. "Help me with this. If we tip it, that'll get their attention."

Anubis didn't move immediately. He studied Steven with those unsettling blue eyes, calculating. Finally, he crossed to the shelving unit.

"This is a terrible plan."

"Got a better one?"

Silence answered him. Anubis positioned himself at the opposite end of the shelving unit, fingers curling around the metal frame. Steven mirrored his stance.

"On three," Steven whispered. "One, two…"

They heaved. The shelving unit tilted, teetered on two legs, then crashed to the concrete with a deafening clang. Cardboard boxes tumbled, contents spilling across the floor. The noise echoed through the small room, making Steven's ears ring.

Both of them froze, listening.

Footsteps pounded outside the door. The lock clicked, tumbled. The door swung inward.

A young man in a tunic stepped through, eyes wide. "What the hell?"

Anubis moved like lightning. His fist connected with the guard's jaw before the man could finish his sentence. The guard crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Steven stared at the body sprawled across the threshold. "That was fast."

“Yeah, I’m not good at fighting. But I can throw a hell of a punch.” Anubis said. 

“I can see that.” Steven grabbed the guard and dragged him in, struggling with the weight.

Anubis shut the door, checking the hallway before he did. Steven knelt beside the unconscious guard, patting down his pockets. Keys, a mobile phone with a cracked screen, and a folded piece of paper with what looked like scripture written in shaky handwriting.

"Nothing useful." Steven tossed the phone aside and started working on the guard's tunic. The fabric pulled over the man's head with some effort, revealing a faded band t-shirt underneath. Very un-cult-like.

"We need to tie him up before he wakes." Anubis surveyed the room, spotting a roll of duct tape on one of the toppled shelves. He grabbed it, tearing off strips with his teeth.

Steven helped roll the guard onto his stomach. The man groaned, consciousness threatening to return. Anubis worked quickly, binding his wrists and ankles quickly. Another strip went across the mouth.

"That should hold him." Anubis stepped back, examining his handiwork.

Steven pulled the tunic over his own clothes. The fabric hung awkwardly on his frame, too big in the shoulders and too short in the legs. He looked ridiculous. "How do I look?"

"Like someone playing dress-up." Anubis dragged the bound guard behind the shelving unit, wedging him into the corner. "But it'll have to do."

"What about you?"

“I’ll try to stay hidden behind you,” Anubis said. “We don’t really have any other options."

Steven adjusted the tunic one more time, feeling exposed despite the extra layer of fabric. The bottom hem barely reached his knees, leaving his jeans and trainers visible underneath. Not exactly inconspicuous.

"Ready?" Anubis moved toward the door, hand hovering over the handle.

"Not really."

Anubis cracked the door open, peering into the hallway. Empty for now, though voices drifted from somewhere deeper in the compound. Laughter, casual conversation. Normal sounds from abnormal people.

They slipped into the corridor. Steven led, shoulders squared despite his racing pulse. The tunic swished around his legs with each step. Anubis stayed close behind, practically in Steven's shadow.

The hallway stretched ahead, doors lining both sides. Most were closed, but one stood ajar. Steven caught a glimpse of rows of beds inside, dormitory-style. More tunics hung from hooks on the wall.

Footsteps echoed from around the corner ahead.

Steven's heart lurched. He kept walking, forcing his pace to remain steady. Casual. Just another follower going about his day. Anubis's hand gripped his shoulder, steering him slightly to the left.

Two women rounded the corner, deep in conversation. They wore matching tunics, hair pulled back in identical braids. Neither looked up.

“-said the ceremony starts at sunset.” Said one.

“What do you think Ammit looks like?” Said the other.

They passed without a second glance.

Steven's breath came easier once they'd disappeared behind them. His hands shook, adrenaline making his fingers tingle. Anubis released his shoulder but stayed close.

"Which way?" Steven whispered.

"How should I know?" Anubis glanced at the doors they passed. "I've never been here before."

Fair point. Steven chose left at the next junction, following the slope of the floor. Buildings usually had exits on the ground level. Simple logic.

The voices grew louder as they walked. More followers appeared, moving with purpose. Steven nodded at a passing man who smiled in return as Anubis hid behind a door.

"There." Anubis pointed ahead but stayed behind the door.

Natural light spilled through a doorway at the end of the corridor. Not the harsh fluorescent kind, but actual sunlight. Steven's chest loosened slightly.

They were almost there.

A hand clamped down on Steven's shoulder from behind.

"Where are you headed, brother?"

Steven turned slowly. A broad-shouldered man with greying temples smiled down at him, but his eyes held suspicion.

Steven's mind raced, searching for something plausible. The man's grip tightened on his shoulder, fingers digging into muscle. Behind the door, Anubis remained motionless, barely visible in the shadows.

“Just trying to find Arthur. That I might have a chat, yeah?"

The man's smile widened, but the suspicion in his eyes didn't fade. His fingers dug deeper into Steven's shoulder, thumb pressing against bone.

"Arthur's preparing for the ceremony. He doesn't want to be disturbed." The man's head tilted, studying Steven's face with uncomfortable intensity. "I don't recognize you, brother. When did you join us?"

Steven's mouth went dry. Behind the door, he sensed Anubis tensing, ready to strike. But attacking this man would draw attention they couldn't afford.

"Recent, yeah. Still finding my way around the compound." Steven forced what he hoped looked like an embarrassed laugh. "Bit lost, if I'm honest."

The man's grip loosened fractionally, though his eyes still held doubt. "Recent convert." He repeated the words like he was testing their weight. "What's your name, brother?"

“Albert,” Steven said with a cringe.

“Albert." The man's free hand came up, stroking his grey-stubbled chin. "And who brought you to Ammit's light?"

"Someone named Marcus," Steven lied, plucking the first name that came to mind. "Met him in Cairo. He told me about Arthur, about balance and judgement."

The man's expression didn't change. His hand remained on Steven's shoulder, heavy as a stone. "Marcus. Don't know any Marcus in our family."

Bollocks.

"Maybe I got the name wrong," Steven said quickly. "I'm terrible with names, me. Could've been Martin? Michael?"

"Could've been a lot of things." The man's smile finally dropped. His fingers dug in again, bruising. "Here's what I think. I think you're not one of us at all."

Anubis stepped out from behind the door.

The man's eyes widened. He opened his mouth, probably to shout for help, but Anubis's fist connected with his temple first. The crack echoed down the corridor. The man's eyes rolled back, knees buckling.

Steven caught him before he hit the ground, staggering under the sudden weight. "Bloody hell, a bit of warning next time?"

"You were about to be discovered." Anubis grabbed the man's other arm, helping drag him toward the nearest door. "Warning seemed unnecessary."

They hauled the unconscious follower into what turned out to be a supply closet. Cleaning products lined metal shelves, the sharp smell of bleach burning Steven's nostrils. They propped the man against a wall, wedging him between a mop bucket and a stack of towels.

"We need to move. Now." Anubis checked the corridor, his jaw tight. "Someone will come looking for him eventually."

Steven stepped back into the hallway, tunic askew from the struggle. His shoulder throbbed where the man had gripped it. Down the corridor, the sunlit doorway still beckoned, freedom tantalizingly close.

“We need to get the ushabti before we can escape,” Steven said nervously.

Anubis's jaw tightened, blue light flickering in his eyes before dying. "That's not our problem anymore."

"Not our problem?" Steven's voice pitched higher than intended. "He's going to release Ammit. She'll kill thousands of people for crimes they haven't even committed yet."

“I should’ve listened to my father when he said they would handle it.” Anubis moved toward the sunlit doorway, footsteps silent against the tile. "We need to focus on getting out alive now."

Steven grabbed his arm, forcing the god to stop. "The same Ennead that refused to believe us? That banished Khonshu and left us to deal with Harrow alone?"

Anubis pulled his arm free, expression hardening. "That's not my concern. I'm not dying in this compound because you have a hero complex."

"This isn't about being a hero." Steven's hands curled into fists at his sides. "This is about innocent people. Children. People who've done nothing wrong except exist in a world where Ammit gets to judge them."

"Then let the gods handle it." Anubis turned back toward the exit. "My job is weighing hearts of the dead. Not saving living humans from their own stupidity."

"Your avatar would care."

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and deliberate. Anubis froze mid-step, shoulders going rigid. When he turned back, something dangerous flickered across his face.

His voice dropped low, warning. "Don't bring my avatar into this."

Steven held his ground despite every instinct screaming at him to back down. "You said you feel what they feel when you're in control. Depression, emptiness, all of it. You think they'd want to abandon people who need help?"

"My avatar is mentally ill." Anubis stepped closer, looming. "Their judgment is compromised by chemical imbalances and trauma. I'm not basing life-or-death decisions on their feelings."

"Maybe you should." Steven's voice steadied, conviction replacing fear. "Because right now, you're choosing to walk away while a madman releases an ancient god who'll slaughter people for crimes they might commit someday. That's not self-preservation. That's cowardice."

Anubis's hand shot out, gripping Steven's tunic and yanking him close. Blue energy crackled around his fingers, hot against Steven's chest. “Call me a coward again."

Steven's heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced himself to meet Anubis's glowing eyes. The god's fingers twisted in the tunic fabric, knuckles white with tension. Heat radiated from where the blue energy crackled between them.

"Let go of me."

Anubis released him with a shove, sending Steven stumbling back a step. The god's chest heaved, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped beneath his skin. For a moment, neither spoke. The compound's ambient noise filled the silence. Distant voices, footsteps, the hum of ventilation.

"Fine." Anubis bit out the word like it physically pained him. "We get the ushabti. But when this goes wrong, and it will go wrong, I'm leaving you behind. I’m not going back to the Duat."

Steven straightened his tunic, refusing to show how badly his hands shook. "Fair enough."

Anubis turned on his heel, moving back down the corridor away from the exit. His footsteps made no sound, godly grace making him practically float across the tile. Steven hurried to keep pace, hyperaware of how loudly his trainers squeaked with each step.

"We need to find out where Harrow's keeping it," Anubis said without looking back. "And we need to do it without alerting half the compound."

"Right." Steven's mind raced through possibilities. "Could try finding his quarters? He'd keep something that important close."

"Assuming he hasn't already moved it somewhere for the ceremony." Anubis paused at a junction, peering around the corner. "We're running out of time."

Two followers passed the intersection, their conversation floating back in fragments. They disappeared down another hallway, talking about dolphins of all things. Apparently they’re sentient, as one of them was insisting.

Anubis waited until their footsteps faded before moving forward. Steven followed, staying close to the wall. The tunic felt ridiculous now, too short and conspicuous. Anyone who looked closely would see through the disguise immediately.

"There." Anubis gestured ahead with his chin.

A door stood slightly ajar, warm lamplight spilling into the corridor. Unlike the other rooms they'd passed, this one had decorative carvings around the frame. Egyptian symbols, badly rendered but recognizable. Ankhs and eyes of Horus, mixed with hieroglyphs that made Steven's archaeologist brain cringe at their incorrectness.

"That's got to be Arthur's office," Steven whispered.

Anubis approached the door, pressing himself against the wall beside the frame. He listened, head tilted. After a moment, he shook his head. "Empty."

Steven's pulse quickened. They were about to break into Arthur Harrow's private office. The man who'd stolen the ushabti, who planned to release Ammit. If they were caught here, there'd be no talking their way out.

Anubis pushed the door open wider, peering inside before slipping through. Steven followed, pulling the door shut behind them with trembling fingers.

The office was surprisingly sparse. A desk sat in the center, its surface covered in papers and maps. Bookshelves lined one wall, crammed with texts on Egyptian mythology. Some looked ancient, others cheap mass-market paperbacks. A cot sat in the corner, sheets rumpled like Harrow had been sleeping here.

"Search quickly." Anubis moved to the desk, rifling through drawers. "We don't know when he'll return."

Steven headed for the bookshelves, scanning titles. Most were academic texts he recognized from university, mixed with fringe theories and conspiracy books. Nothing useful. He pulled books forward, checking behind them for hidden compartments.

Nothing.

"Anything?" he whispered.

Anubis shook his head, opening desk drawers one by one. The wood creaked with each pull, far too loud in the quiet room. Papers rustled as he searched. Maps unfolded, then were shoved back carelessly.

Steven moved to a trunk at the foot of the cot. The lid was unlocked, lifting easily. Inside, he found clothes. Tunics in various states of wear, sandals, a few personal items. A photograph tucked between layers of fabric caught his eye.

He pulled it free. A young Arthur Harrow stood in front of the Giza Pyramid, in a rare show of a smile. Before he met Khonshu and everything went wrong, apparently.

Steven tucked the photograph back between the tunics, his chest tight with something he couldn't name. Even monsters had histories. Even Harrow had been someone else once.

"Nothing here," Anubis muttered, slamming the last drawer shut. His fingers drummed against the desk surface, restless energy making them twitch. "Where would he keep it?"

"Maybe he's already moved it." Steven stood, knees protesting. "For the ceremony, like you said."

Anubis's jaw clenched. Blue light flickered around his pupils before dying. "Then we're wasting time."

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside.

Both of them froze. Steven's breath caught in his throat, every muscle tensing. The footsteps grew louder, purposeful. Heading straight for the office.

"Hide." Anubis grabbed Steven's arm, yanking him toward a narrow gap between two bookshelves.

They wedged themselves into the space just as the door swung open. Steven pressed his back against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. Through the gap between books, he watched Arthur Harrow enter.

The cult leader moved with deliberate calm, his cane clicking against the floor with each step. He carried a wooden box under one arm, carved with hieroglyphs that made Steven's skin crawl. The ushabti.

Harrow set the box on his desk, running his fingers across the lid almost reverently. "Balance," he murmured to himself. "Finally, balance."

Steven's heart hammered so loudly he was certain Harrow would hear it. Beside him, Anubis remained still, barely breathing. The god's fingers curled into fists, knuckles white with tension.

Harrow opened the box.

The ushabti sat nestled in purple silk, its surface gleaming in the lamplight. Ammit's prison, right there within reaching distance. So close Steven could almost touch it.

Harrow lifted it carefully, examining it from all angles. His lips moved in silent prayer or conversation. The glass beads woven into his shoes clinked softly with each small movement.

"Soon," Harrow whispered to the figurine. "Very soon, you'll be free. And the world will finally understand true justice."

He returned the ushabti to its silk bed, closing the box with a soft click. The sound seemed to echo through Steven's bones.

qHarrow moved toward the cot, box tucked under his arm. He settled onto the thin mattress, springs creaking beneath his weight. The box rested on his lap, both hands resting atop it protectively.

Steven's leg cramped. The awkward angle made his muscles scream, but moving would give them away. He gritted his teeth, willing his body to stay still.

Harrow's eyes drifted closed. His breathing deepened, evening out. The box rose and fell with each breath, precious cargo cradled against his chest.

Minutes crawled past. Steven counted heartbeats, trying to distract himself from the burning in his thigh. Beside him, Anubis shifted minutely, obviously cramping too.

Harrow's breathing stayed steady, deep and rhythmic. Asleep.

Anubis moved first, slipping from their hiding spot with preternatural silence. Steven followed more clumsily, his cramped leg nearly buckling. He caught himself on the bookshelf, wood groaning under his hand.

Harrow stirred. His head lolled to one side, lips parting. But his eyes stayed closed.

Steven froze, not daring to breathe. Anubis stood halfway across the room, caught between the bookshelf and the cot. One wrong sound would wake Harrow. One creak of floorboard, one rustle of clothing.

Anubis gestured sharply. Move.

Steven forced his protesting leg forward. Each step felt so loud despite his efforts. His trainers squeaked against tile. The tunic swished around his knees.

Anubis reached the cot. His hands hovered over the box, fingers spread. Blue energy crackled silently around his palms. He lifted the box from Harrow's chest with agonizing slowness, supporting its weight with both hands.

Harrow mumbled something unintelligible. His arms moved, reaching for the box that was no longer there. His hands found empty air, fingers grasping at Steven before closing around his tunic.

Steven's breath stopped entirely. Harrow's fingers twisted in the fabric of his tunic, grip tightening. The cult leader's eyes remained closed, face slack with sleep, but his hand held fast.

Anubis stood motionless three feet away, the box cradled against his chest. His eyes locked on Steven's, wide with alarm. The blue energy around his fingers flickered and died, extinguished.

Harrow's lips moved again, forming soundless words. His other hand reached up, patting along Steven's arm like a child searching for a stuffed animal in the dark.

Steven's heart hammered against his ribs. Moving would wake him. Staying put meant getting caught. The tunic pulled tighter as Harrow's fingers found better purchase.

"Ammit," Harrow breathed, still dreaming. His hand slid higher, finding Steven's shoulder.

Anubis took a silent step backward, then another. 

Anubis's eyes met Steven's one last time. Something flickered across his face. Guilt, maybe, or apology, but it vanished just as quickly as it appeared. The god took another step backward, the box secure against his chest.

Steven's mouth opened, forming silent words. Wait.

But Anubis had already turned toward the door. His movements stayed fluid, supernatural. Each step quiet, avoiding the creaky floorboards Steven had hit earlier. The door stood ajar, just as they'd left it.

Harrow's fingers dug deeper into Steven's shoulder, pulling him closer. "Balance," the cult leader murmured against Steven's tunic. "Finally..."

Steven watched helplessly as Anubis reached the doorway. The god paused there, hand on the frame. He didn't look back.

The door opened wider and Anubis slipped through. Then he was gone. 

Steven stood frozen, pinned by Harrow's sleeping grip. His mind raced through scenarios. Shove Harrow away and run? The man would wake, sound the alarm, and every follower in the compound would hunt him down within minutes.

Stay put and wait? For what? Harrow to wake naturally and find Steven standing over his cot like some creep?

The door swung shut with a whisper-soft click.

Harrow's breathing changed, growing shallower. His eyelids fluttered. Steven's stomach dropped as those too-calm eyes opened, focusing slowly on Steven's face.

“Bollocks.”

[rosesofred7]

Putnam Psychiatric Hospital ch. 8

Artist/Author: rosesofred  Title: Putnam Psychiatric Hospital Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU, original story Summary:  Notes & Warnings: Links:

He’d tried to hold it as long as he could, practically to the point of bursting. No matter how much he begged, nobody would let him get up and use the toilet. It was only once they gave him a PRN for another episode that his body had lazily let go, releasing all the held in urine he’d refused to let go before. It had been humiliating, even as drowsy as he was, to have a nurse wipe him up and replace the bedpan. He’d seen another demon in his room and had panicked, unable to move.

The restraints had held him in place as the demon loomed over him, ready to carve him up into pieces of lunch meat. Then the orderlies had come in, alerted to the sound of his screaming, and before he knew it, a needle was jammed into his shoulder and he’d gone loose and limp like a noodle. His body had released and the nurse had cleaned him up. Humiliating.

He didn’t know what time it was, or what day it was. The night had stretched on forever, marked only by the sounds of the demons taunting him and talking about his situation. They told him he had to get away, that the end was nearing, that his parents weren’t going to heaven. He’d argued with them, told them to shove it where the sun don’t shine, because he didn’t want to imagine his parents not going to heaven. The alternative made his eyes sting.

Now he just lay in bed boredly, strapped down and immobile, staring at the ceiling. His eyes burned from being open so long but he couldn’t sleep. Not with demons chattering to him nonstop. They always seemed to know when he was tired and chose the moments when he closed his eyes to come pouring in. Haunting him, hunting him, taunting him. Like they had nothing better to do than torment some random guy in a mental hospital.

The door opened but Isaac didn’t look. It was either the nurse, an orderly, or Dr. Harrow. Nobody he wanted to talk to.

“Hey,” came a soft voice. It sounded like Layla. Isaac looked over, almost not believing it.

“Layla? I don’t think you’re allowed to be in here.”

“Nah, they didn’t see me. Sarah, you know, the girl with one eye? She started ‘fighting god’ in the rec room, everyone’s dealing with that now. We’ve got a minute.”

Isaac smiled despite himself, and for once it didn’t quite feel forced. “How’s it going out there?”

"Like a prison riot waiting to happen." Layla perched on the edge of his bed, glancing at the restraints with a frown. "They've got you trussed up like a Christmas turkey."

"Had another episode. Saw demons, screamed the place down." Isaac's voice came out flat, emotionless. "Pissed myself too, if you're keeping score."

"Jesus, Isaac." She reached out like she wanted to touch his arm, then pulled back when she remembered the straps. "This place is making you worse, not better."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Harrow's been talking about you. Specifically about your 'progress' with accepting your diagnosis." Layla's fingers made air quotes, her expression darkening.

Isaac's stomach clenched. "What's he saying?"

"That you're resistant to treatment. That your delusions are becoming more elaborate." Layla lowered her voice further. "He mentioned something about electro-whatever therapy if the medication doesn't start working soon."

The blood drained from Isaac's face. He'd heard whispers about ECT from other people on reddit. The memory loss, the confusion, the way it turned people into hollow shells of themselves.

"He can't do that. I haven't consented to anything like that."

"Your commitment papers give him pretty broad authority." Layla's jaw tightened. "I've seen them do it to others. They wheel you out on a gurney, bring you back a few hours later looking like a zombie."

Isaac tested the restraints again, muscles straining against the leather. The straps bit into his wrists, unyielding. A familiar rage bubbled up in his chest. Not at Layla, but at everything else. The helplessness, the constant monitoring, the way everyone spoke about him like he wasn't there.

"There's something else," Layla continued. "I overheard two nurses talking. They said Harrow's been documenting incidents that didn't happen. Making you sound more violent than you actually are."

"What kind of incidents?"

"Attacking staff. Threatening other patients. Things that would justify more aggressive treatment." She glanced toward the door. "Isaac, I think he's building a case to keep you here permanently."

The demons in the corner of the room began chattering louder, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of warnings. They'd been telling him the same thing for days. That Harrow wanted to destroy him, that the hospital was a trap, that he needed to escape before it was too late.

"The demons," Isaac whispered. "They've been saying the same thing."

Layla leaned closer. "What if they're not demons? What if they're something else?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. But maybe your mind is picking up on something real. Some kind of danger that the rest of us can't see." She touched his forehead gently. "You were always good at reading people, even before all this started."

Isaac closed his eyes, feeling the first real moment of clarity he'd had in weeks. The voices weren't just tormenting him, they were warning him. He let the sensation was hover him, Layla’s gentle hand on his forehead, the feeling that for just one moment everything was okay while she was there. Then the door clicked open and Isaac’s eyes shot open. Dr. Harrow was standing in the doorway. He didn’t know how Layla had slipped out so fast or when she’d stopped touching him but he decided not to mention it to the doctor.

"Mr. Mohammadi." Dr. Harrow stepped into the room, heels clacking against the floor. "I hope you're feeling more settled today."

Isaac kept his expression neutral, though his heart hammered against his chest. Had Harrow seen Layla? The doctor's face revealed nothing, that same clinical mask he always wore. "I'm fine."

"Good to hear." Harrow consulted his tablet, stylus poised. "The overnight staff reported another incident. Screaming, combative behavior when they attempted to change your bedding."

Isaac frowned. "I wasn't combative. I was scared."

"The distinction matters less than the outcome, I'm afraid." Harrow's stylus moved across the screen. "Your resistance to treatment is becoming a pattern.”

"I'm not resisting treatment. I'm questioning it." Isaac kept his voice level despite the anger building in his chest. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" Harrow's stylus paused mid-stroke. "You've refused medication and hidden your pills. You've been argumentative with staff. And now these episodes are escalating."

"The episodes happen because I can't sleep. I can't sleep because you've got me strapped to this bed like an animal." Isaac tested the restraints again, leather creaking. "How is any of this supposed to help?"

"The restraints are for your safety and the safety of others." Harrow made another note. "Your file indicates increasing paranoid ideation. Delusions of persecution."

"Delusions?" Isaac's voice cracked. "You're literally holding me prisoner."

"You're here for treatment, Mr. Mohammadi. Treatment that you desperately need." Harrow stepped closer to the bed. "These voices you're hearing, these demons, they're not real. The sooner you accept that, the sooner we can move forward."

The demons in the corner began whispering again, their voices urgent and overlapping. They spoke of danger, of escape, of time running out. Isaac forced himself not to look in their direction, not to give Harrow any more ammunition.

"What if they are real?" Isaac met the doctor's gaze. "What if there's something you're not seeing? You don’t know all the answers to the universe, maybe demons are real. You don’t know."

"That's exactly the kind of thinking that brought you here." Harrow's tone sharpened. "Your inability to distinguish between reality and fantasy is the core of your illness."

"My reality is being drugged and tied to a bed by someone who won't listen to anything I say." Isaac snapped.

Harrow's pen clicked against his tablet, the sound sharp in the sterile room. "Your hostility is noted, Mr. Mohammadi. As is your continued refusal to engage constructively with your treatment plan."

"Constructively?" Isaac's laugh came out bitter. "You mean agreeing with everything you say? Pretending the voices aren't real just because you can't hear them?"

"The voices are auditory hallucinations caused by your psychiatric condition." Harrow leaned in, his shadow falling across Isaac's face. "Entertaining their reality only reinforces the pathology."

Isaac's jaw clenched. The demons whispered louder now, their words urgent and overlapping. They were talking about ECT, forced medication, and the end of the world. They kept talking about Jesus too, about how Jesus would be mad at him, how he wouldn’t cleanse his soul. Isaac opened his mouth to speak but the demons got louder, clouding his mind. Finally he snapped. “Shut up!”

Harrow's eyebrows lifted slightly, his stylus hovering over the tablet screen. "I'm sorry?"

Isaac's chest heaved as he realized what he'd done. The demons fell silent, as if they too understood the magnitude of his mistake. Harrow hadn't been speaking when Isaac had shouted, which meant he'd just yelled at voices only he could hear.

"I wasn't talking to you," Isaac said quickly, but the damage was done.

"Of course you weren't." Harrow's stylus moved across the screen with renewed purpose. "The voices are becoming more intrusive, aren't they? More demanding of your attention?"

Isaac's mouth went dry. He could feel the trap closing around him, each word Harrow typed sealing his fate a little tighter. "They're just... loud sometimes."

"And what are they telling you right now?"

Isaac stared at the ceiling, willing the demons to stay quiet. But they were back already, whispering about ECT machines and memory loss, about Harrow's plans to keep him locked up forever. About how his parents were burning in hell because he'd failed to save them. “Nosy,” Isaac grumbled.

Harrow's pen stopped moving. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing." Isaac pressed his lips together, but the word had already escaped. The demons cackled in the corner, delighted by his slip.

"You said 'nosy.' Were you referring to the voices or me?" Harrow looked at him like a test subject.

“You,” Isaac admitted. “It’s none of your business.”

Harrow's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. A predatory satisfaction that made Isaac's skin crawl. The stylus moved across the tablet with deliberate strokes, each tap echoing in the quiet room.

"Increasing agitation and hostility toward medical staff," Harrow murmured as he typed. "Auditory hallucinations becoming more commanding and disruptive to daily functioning."

"I'm not hostile. I'm frustrated." Isaac pulled against the restraints, leather biting into his wrists. "There's a difference."

"The patient continues to demonstrate poor insight into his condition," Harrow continued dictating to his tablet, speaking about Isaac as if he weren't there. "Persistent denial of psychiatric symptoms despite clear evidence of deterioration."

The demons began chattering again, their voices layering over each other in urgent whispers. Isaac gritted his teeth, determined not to react.

The world will end when the clock strikes ten, the trumpets announce, the trumpets are the beginning of the end.

Isaac remembered reading Revelations as a kid, when his mom had sat him down and told him that the tribulations were coming soon. Soon. The end had always been soon, for the last twenty years his parents had prepared for the end that was soon. The trumpets were supposed to be a mark of the end, or a beginning of the end at least. He remembered that much.

"What are they saying now?" Harrow's voice cut through Isaac's thoughts, pulling him back to the sterile hospital room.

Isaac blinked, realizing he'd been staring at the ceiling while the demons whispered about trumpets and tribulations. His mother's voice echoed in his memory, reading passages about the end times while he sat cross-legged on their living room carpet.

"Nothing important," Isaac muttered.

"Your facial expressions suggest otherwise." Harrow said. "You appear to be actively listening to something."

Isaac forced himself to look directly at Harrow, avoiding the corner where the demons huddled. "I'm listening to you."

"No, you're not." Harrow's stylus tapped against the tablet screen. "You're divided between two conversations. One with me, and one with the voices in your head."

The demons grew louder, their whispers becoming urgent chatter about biblical prophecies and divine retribution. Isaac squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made their voices clearer.

"Mr. Mohammadi, I need you to tell me what the voices are saying."

"Why?" Isaac opened his eyes, meeting Harrow's gaze. "So you can write it down and use it against me?"

"So I can understand the nature of your auditory hallucinations and adjust your treatment accordingly." Harrow's tone remained clinical, detached. "The content of these voices is diagnostically significant."

Isaac's jaw tightened. Everything he said became evidence in Harrow's case against him, another reason to keep him locked up, another justification for more aggressive treatment. The demons whispered about ECT again, about memory loss and personality changes.

"They're talking about the end of the world," Isaac said finally. "About trumpets and tribulations. Religious stuff."

Harrow's stylus moved across the screen with renewed interest. "Religious delusions are common in your demographic. Tell me more about these prophecies."

"They're not delusions if they're real," Isaac shot back.

"And you believe they're real?"

Isaac hesitated. The question felt like a trap. But every answer seemed to lead to the same destination. Admitting he believed it would confirm Harrow's diagnosis. Denying it would be a lie, and the demons would know. "I believe something's happening that you can't see," Isaac said carefully. "Something you refuse to consider because it doesn't fit your textbook ideology."

“Interesting,” Harrow said as he sat down in the plastic chair. “And this all began shortly after your brother died?”

Isaac's chest tightened at the mention of Sam. The demons fell silent for a moment, as if even they recognized the sacred ground Harrow had just stepped onto.

"Leave him out of this."

"Your brother's death was clearly a traumatic event." Dr. Harrow said. "It's not uncommon for grief to manifest as auditory hallucinations, particularly in individuals with underlying psychological vulnerabilities."

"I said leave him out of this." Isaac's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"The timeline is significant, Mr. Mohammadi. Your first documented episode occurred three weeks after the funeral. The voices began around the same time you stopped attending work and stopped maintaining basic hygiene. We’ve got a clear timeline of events here.”

“How do you even know that?” Isaac asked. He didn’t remember telling anyone anything, especially not the doctor who’d ordered him to be restrained to a bed like an animal.

“Your brother, um…” Dr. Harrow checked his notes. “David. He was the one who brought you in, yes? We had a long discussion over the phone about you.”

Isaac couldn’t believe it. David would never sell him out, never. “Bullshit.”

"Your brother was quite concerned about your wellbeing," the doctor continued. "He mentioned finding you talking to empty rooms, refusing to eat, and claiming that demons were giving you messages about the apocalypse."

Isaac's world tilted sideways. David had been the one person he'd trusted, the only family member who hadn't looked at him like he was broken after Sam died. The betrayal cut deeper than any physical restraint. "He wouldn't do that."

"He provided detailed accounts of your behaviour over several phone calls." Harrow scrolled through his notes. "Quite thorough documentation, actually. He was very worried about your mental state."

The demons erupted in the corner, their voices a mixture of warnings and accusations. They yelled about betrayal, about family turning against family, of the end times when brother would deliver brother unto death. Isaac's breathing quickened as the biblical references crashed through his mind. Isaac on the mountain, bound and helpless.

"You're lying."

"I have the transcripts if you'd like me to read them." Harrow's finger hovered over the tablet screen. "David described finding you in your room in your parents’ house, unwashed, surrounded by religious texts and conspiracy theories written on the walls. He also mentioned the self harm he’d found on your body."

He remembered that day differently. David had come to check on him, concerned but supportive. They'd talked about the demons but David didn’t shut him down, he’d been understanding. He thought he’d believed him.

Isaac started screaming. He didn’t really know why, but the voices were screaming too. He thrashed against the restraints, against the tube in his nose, against the whole world that now worked against him.

In a matter of minutes a needle pressed into his shoulder and his body collapsed, strained muscles relaxing into a pool of silly putty. His eyelids fluttered, looking up at the doctor and nurse who talked about him. They were talking about ECT, how long he’d be intubated, what kind of medications he was taking… All the fun stuff.

When he woke up, the room was dark. The demons were quiet now. The whole world had gone quiet. He tried the restraints again, pulling his wrists as tight as they would allow until he couldn’t stand it anymore. The restraints weren’t budging, not as long as Dr. Harrow wanted him stuck in bed.

The darkness pressed against Isaac's eyes like a living thing. Hours had passed, or maybe minutes. Time moved differently in this place, stretching and compressing without warning. His throat felt raw from screaming, his voice reduced to a scratchy whisper.

A shuffling sound came from the hallway, footsteps accompanied by the squeak of wheels. Isaac turned his head toward the door, watching shadows move beneath the gap. The footsteps stopped outside his room.

The door opened with its familiar click, and a figure stepped inside. Not Harrow this time. A night orderly Isaac didn't recognise. Tall, broad-shouldered, with kind eyes that seemed out of place in this sterile environment.

"Hey there," the orderly said softly, approaching the bed. "I'm Marcus. Just checking on you." Oh, he’d met a Marcus before. He wondered if it was the same one or a new, different Marcus.

Isaac studied the man's face, searching for signs of deception or hidden agenda. But Marcus's expression remained gentle, concerned rather than clinical.

"Can't sleep?"

Isaac's voice came out as a croak. "Hard to sleep when you're tied up like this."

Marcus glanced at the restraints. "Yeah, I can imagine. Dr. Harrow ordered these to stay on indefinitely. Says you're a flight risk."

Isaac looked at him, the door open just enough to let light in that eliminated his face. “We’ve met before.”

“Yes, we have.” Marcus sat down in the plastic chair. “You remember me?”

“Yeah,” Isaac said quietly. “You looked meaner before.”

Marcus chuckled. “I’m sure.” He leaned back in the chair, the plastic creaking under his weight. "You want to tell me what happened earlier? The nurses said you had a pretty rough episode."

Isaac stared at the ceiling, unwilling to give Marcus more ammunition against him. Every conversation in this place became part of his file, another piece of evidence that he was too dangerous or too sick to be trusted with basic freedoms.

"I'm not supposed to talk about it."

"Says who?"

"Experience." Isaac's wrists ached from pulling against the restraints. "Everything I say gets written down and used to justify keeping me here longer."

Marcus was quiet for a moment, studying Isaac's face in the dim light filtering through the door. "You think I'm going to report this conversation?"

"Aren't you?"

"Not unless you tell me you're planning to hurt yourself or someone else." Marcus's voice carried a sincerity that Isaac hadn't heard from staff before. "Sometimes people just need to talk without it ending up in a chart."

Isaac tested the words, rolling them around in his mind before speaking. It felt like a trap, but exhaustion was wearing down his defenses. "Harrow told me my brother David was the one who gave him information about me. Personal stuff."

"That bothers you."

"He was the only family I had left who didn't think I was completely insane." Isaac's throat tightened. "Or at least I thought he didn't."

Marcus nodded slowly. "Family situations get complicated when someone's struggling. People don't always know how to help."

"Help? Getting me locked up in here was supposed to help?"

"Maybe David thought it was the only option left." Marcus shifted in his chair. "Doesn't mean he stopped caring about you."

Isaac looked back at Marcus, then at the door. “What’s that thing outside the door?”

Marcus looked back. “Oh, that’s just for taking vitals. I’m doing the rounds this morning.”

Isaac's eyes narrowed as he studied the contraption in the hallway. The metal cart gleamed under the fluorescent lights, but something about its angular design didn't match the other medical equipment he'd seen. The demons stirred in the corner, their whispers returning like static on a broken radio.

"That doesn't look like vital signs equipment."

Marcus followed his gaze, then turned back with a neutral expression. "New model. Hospital's been updating a lot of the gear lately."

The explanation felt rehearsed, too smooth. Isaac's pulse quickened as the demons' voices grew more urgent, overlapping warnings about deception and danger. He didn’t trust it, he didn’t trust Marcus.

"You're not here to check on me, are you?"

Marcus looked back at him, casual. Too calm. "I'm doing my rounds, just like I said."

"At three in the morning?" Isaac pulled against his restraints, leather creaking. "With equipment that doesn't belong on a psych ward?"

“Hey, it’s okay.” Marcus sat forward, hands hovering over him to calm him down. “I told you, it’s just vitals. And it’s four thirty, by the way. Not three.”

Marcus son of Mary. Son of idolatry. Son of sin.

Isaac's blood chilled as the demons’ words echoed in his mind. Not just any Marcus. This Marcus. The Marcus of the bible, writer of gospel. "You're not real," Isaac whispered.

Marcus tilted his head, his expression shifting from gentle concern to something else entirely. "What makes you say that?"

Fuck a puppet show, gospel of lies. Threat level warning.

“Puppet,” Isaac snapped. “You’re a puppet!” His mind was clouded with accusations, foggy and unfocused. All he could think of was what the demons were saying. They never lied to him, they were the only ones who were honest in a world of people who treated him like a freak.

Marcus's expression shifted to genuine concern as he watched Isaac strain against the restraints, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. The young man's eyes darted between Marcus and the empty corner of the room, his breathing becoming rapid and shallow.

"Isaac, look at me." Marcus kept his voice steady, the way he'd been trained. "I'm real. I'm here to help."

"The demons told me about you." Isaac said. "Marcus the gospel writer. Marcus the puppet. You're not supposed to be here. John Mark."

Marcus leaned back slightly, giving Isaac more space while staying close enough to intervene if necessary. He'd seen this before, patients caught between multiple realities, unable to distinguish between hallucination and the present moment. The restraints only made it worse, trapping them in their own minds.

"I'm Marcus Williams. I work here on the night shift." He spoke slowly, clearly. "I've been working this ward for three years. Sometimes I work the evening shift too, that’s where we met. You remember? When you tried to escape, I had to catch you."

Isaac's eyes widened as the memory crashed back. Marcus tackling him in the hallway, the weight of his body pinning Isaac to the cold linoleum while other orderlies rushed to help. The humiliation of being dragged back to his room, the way Marcus had looked at him with something between pity and professional detachment.

"You're the one who stopped me from getting out."

"I did my job. You were running toward the exit in scrubs and socks. No shoes, no coat. It was twenty degrees outside."

The demons whispered frantically now, their voices layering over each other in urgent warnings. They were telling him not to trust Marcus, that he was here to steal his blood. “You’re here to take my blood.”

“Well… yes. But just for blood tests. It’ll be quick, I promise.” Marcus stood up, getting the machine from the hallway. It had different equipment on it, all for taking vitals and blood. “Here, see? We’ll start with your blood pressure.” Marcus picked up a blood pressure cuff.

Isaac's breathing quickened as Marcus approached with the blood pressure cuff. The demons didn’t trust him and neither did Isaac.

Blood ritual. Sacrifice. They need your essence for the summoning.

"Don't touch me." Isaac pulled against the restraints, his wrists already raw from all his struggling. "I know what you're really doing."

Marcus paused, cuff in hand. "Isaac, this is routine. We check vitals every shift for patients on your medication protocol."

“No you don’t! I haven’t had my vitals checked since I got here!”

Marcus set the blood pressure cuff back on the cart. "You're right. We haven't been checking them regularly because of the restraints and your... episodes. But Dr. Harrow ordered a full workup tonight."

"At four thirty in the morning?" Isaac's said. "That's not when people do blood work."

"It is when the patient has been sedated multiple times in twenty-four hours." Marcus pulled a clipboard from the cart, flipping through pages. "Your body's been through a lot of chemical stress. We need to make sure your liver and kidneys are handling the medication load."

To harvest you, make your kidneys sing, take your blood and sell it all.

"Show me the order."

Marcus held up the clipboard, angling it so Isaac could see Harrow's signature at the bottom. The handwriting looked legitimate, though Isaac couldn't be sure. Everything in this place seemed designed to blur the lines between truth and manipulation.

"This could be fake."

“I promise you it’s very real. Now let’s get your vitals, okay?”

Marcus picked up the blood pressure cuff, approaching slowly. Isaac's muscles tensed against the restraints, leather biting deeper into his wrists as he tried to pull away.

"Just breathe," Marcus said, reaching for Isaac's left arm. "This won't hurt."

"Get away from me!" Isaac thrashed his head from side to side, the only part of his body he could move freely. "I don't consent to this!"

"You don't have a choice right now." Marcus's voice remained calm as he wrapped the cuff around Isaac's bicep. "Your commitment papers give us authority to perform necessary medical procedures. It’ll be okay. Just breathe."

The demons screamed at him, yelling about blood and sacrifice. They were angry Isaac wasn’t fighting, they wanted him to fight. But he didn’t want to fight, he didn’t want to hurt anyone. "Stop, please." Isaac whimpered. "I can't... I can't breathe."

"The cuff's not affecting your breathing." Marcus watched the gauge, waiting for the reading. "Try to relax your arm."

Isaac couldn't relax anything. His whole body vibrated with tension, muscles cramping from being held in the same position for hours. The blood pressure cuff squeezed tighter, and he felt like his arm might explode.

"One fifteen over seven five," Marcus murmured, making a note on his clipboard. "That's good." Marcus released the cuff and moved to the thermometer. "Under your tongue."

Isaac clamped his mouth shut, turning his head away. Marcus waited patiently, then gently grasped Isaac's chin and turned his face forward. “Open your mouth.” When Isaac still wouldn’t listen, Marcus sighed. “Come on man. Don’t me do this the hard way.”

Isaac kept his jaw locked tight, lips pressed into a thin line. The thermometer hovered inches from his face, but he wouldn't budge. Marcus waited another moment, then set the device back on the cart with a soft sigh.

"Rectal temp it is then."

Isaac's eyes went wide. "What? No!"

"You won't open your mouth, and ear temps aren't accurate enough for your medication levels." Marcus pulled on latex gloves with a snap. "Hospital policy for non-cooperative patients."

"I'll open my mouth! I'll do it!" Isaac's voice cracked with panic.

"Too late for that." Marcus retrieved a different thermometer from the cart, this one with a longer probe and a tube of lubricant. "Should have cooperated when I asked nicely."

Isaac thrashed against the restraints with renewed desperation, leather straps cutting into his wrists. The demons shrieked and screeched, telling him this was all a trap and he was going to die. "You can't do this! This is assault!" He thrashed on the bed, twisting and turning. “I thought you were nice!" Isaac's voice cracked as he pulled frantically against the restraints. "I thought you were different from the others, but you're just another asshole!"

Marcus paused, thermometer in one gloved hand, lubricant in the other. Something flickered across his face, maybe regret or disappointment. But it vanished quickly, replaced by the same professional mask Isaac had seen on nearly every other staff member in this place. "I am trying to be nice. But nice doesn't mean letting you call the shots." Marcus squeezed a small amount of lubricant onto the thermometer's tip. "You had a choice. You chose not to cooperate."

"Because this is insane!" Isaac's voice rose to a pitch. "Taking someone's temperature rectally because they won't open their mouth? That's not medical procedure, that's punishment!"

"It's protocol for non-compliant patients." Marcus moved to the foot of the bed, positioning himself near Isaac's lower body. "Hospital liability if we can't get accurate readings."

The demons screamed about violation and humiliation, about how this was all part of Harrow's plan to break him down completely. Isaac's breathing became ragged as Marcus reached for the thin blanket covering Isaac’s legs.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Isaac bucked against the restraints, his whole body convulsing with the effort. "I'll take the oral temp! I promise I'll cooperate!"

"Should have thought of that five minutes ago." Marcus's hands stilled on the blanket, but he didn't pull away. "You had multiple chances. This is what Dr. Harrow told us to do if you don’t cooperate. You’ve gotta learn to cooperate the first time.”

So this was all Harrow’s doing, the sick bastard. He enjoyed torturing Isaac, he just knew it. The man had way too much power. Marcus lifted the blanket back to reveal Isaac’s lanky form and the bedpan underneath him. Then the orderly rolled Isaac onto his side, as far as the restraints would allow him. 

“Don’t tense up,” Marcus warned.

Isaac squeezed his eyes shut, every muscle in his body going rigid despite Marcus's warning not to tense up. The cold touch of lubricant against his skin made him flinch, and he bit down hard on his lower lip to keep from crying out.

"Just breathe," Marcus said quietly, his voice softer now. "This'll be over in thirty seconds."

The thermometer slid in too easily. Isaac's face burned with humiliation as tears formed in his eyes. The demons had quieted back down to murmurs, less intense than before. He felt like a specimen, a thing to be poked and prodded rather than a human being.

"There." Marcus held the device steady. "Almost done."

Isaac opened his eyes and stared at the wall, focusing on a small crack in the paint to distance himself from what was happening. He'd endured worse things in his life, he told himself. Physical pain from childhood accidents, the emotional devastation of losing Sam. But this felt different. This was deliberate degradation disguised as medical necessity.

The thermometer beeped softly.

"Ninety-eight point four," Marcus announced, withdrawing the device and disposing of the probe cover. "Normal range."

Isaac remained curled on his side, unable to look at Marcus as the orderly cleaned him up with a wipe. The latex gloves snapped off and disappeared into a biohazard container. Marcus covered him back up with the thin blanket, adjusting it carefully around Isaac's waist.

"One more thing and we're done," Marcus said, returning to the cart. He grabbed a new pair of gloves, snapping them on. "Just need to draw some blood."

"No." Isaac's voice came out barely above a whisper. "Please, no more."

"It's just a small vial. We need to check your medication levels." Marcus unwrapped a sterile needle, testing the syringe. "I'll be quick."

Isaac turned his head away as Marcus swabbed his arm with alcohol. The sharp pinch of the needle felt almost trivial after everything else, but it represented another piece of his autonomy being stripped away. Another decision made for him by people who claimed to know what was best.

The needle went in and dark red blood flowed into the small vial. His own blood, being taken without his permission, to be tested for chemicals they'd forced into his system.

"Almost done," Marcus said, holding the vial steady. "There." Marcus withdrew the needle and pressed a cotton ball against the puncture site. He taped the cotton down, labelling the vial with Isaac's name and patient number, then placed it in a small cooler on the cart.

"When will I get the results?"

"Dr. Harrow will review them tomorrow and adjust your medications if needed." Marcus stripped off his gloves and washed his hands at the small sink. "Try to get some rest."

Isaac watched him pack up the equipment, noting how efficiently Marcus moved, how routine this all seemed to him. Just another night shift, another difficult patient to manage. Nothing personal, nothing cruel intended. Just protocol.

“Hey.” Marcus said at the door. Isaac looked up, blinking back the tears in his eyes. “It does get better. Just… keep your chin up. You’ll get out of here.”

[rosesofred7]

Recovery ch. 8

Artist/Author: rosesofred  Title: Recovery Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU Summary: Anubis helps Marc and Steven escape the Duat while Taweret is busy. Unfortunately, they run into a problem with a gun. Notes & Warnings: Guns Links: Masterlist Part 7 Part 9

It must have been the middle of the night when Steven woke up. He was being shaken awake, the form above him whispering about being quiet and not making a sound. Steven blearily blinked up at what looked like Anubis in the dark.

“Come on,” Anubis whispered. “Taweret just started knitting and Osiris and Isis won’t be back for a few hours still. Now is our chance.”

Oh, it was go time. Steven sat bolt upright, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Right, right,” he said a little too loudly. Anubis shushed him and he lowered his voice. “Sorry.” He got out of bed, grabbing for the day clothes Osiris had made for him.

“What are you doing?” Anubis hissed. “There’s no time for that. Come on.”

Steven hesitated, standing in only his cotton nightgown. He didn’t particularly want to go saving the world in a nighty but he nodded his head. If Anubis said there was no time then he didn’t want to push it. Although it didn’t escape his notice that Anubis was fully dressed.

They crept down the hallway, the faint sound of music coming from the living room. “Is that…” Steven whispered, his eyebrows furrowing. “Screamo?”

Anubis held his finger to his mouth as he peered around a pillar, looking in on Taweret. The goddess sat on a large cream coloured sofa, yarn in her hands as she knit and hummed along to a band Steven recognised as Gojira.

Weird-ass hippo, Marc thought.

Steven followed Anubis past the living room, carefully keeping out of eyesight as they crept along. They made their way down a long corridor towards a doorway where Anubis stopped. “Alright, once we do this, there’s no going back. I’m really putting myself on the line here,” he said.

“I know. But it’s worth it, I promise. We have to stop Harrow from releasing Ammit.” Steven said.

Anubis nodded once, holding out his hand. The doorway glowed and a portal appeared, leading to what looked like the middle of the desert. “After you,” Anubis whispered.

Steven stepped through the portal, his feet sinking into the sand as he hit the desert floor. The night air struck him like a cold slap, and he wrapped his arms around himself, the thin nightgown providing no protection against the chill. Behind him, Anubis emerged and the portal snapped shut with a soft whoosh.

"Bloody hell, it's freezing," Steven muttered, his teeth already chattering.

"The desert gets cold at night," Anubis said, scanning the horizon. "We need to move quickly. Harrow won't waste time once he reaches the tomb."

They set off across the dunes, Steven's bare feet slipping in the loose sand with each step. The moon hung full overhead, casting everything in an eerie silver light that made the desert look like an alien landscape.

"How far is it?" Steven asked, already breathing hard from the exertion.

"Not far. The tomb of Alexander is just beyond that ridge." Anubis pointed to a dark silhouette against the starlit sky.

Steven stumbled, catching himself with his hands as he pitched forward. Sand scraped against his palms and knees. "Maybe we should have brought a torch?"

"Your eyes will adjust." Anubis helped him to his feet, dusting him off.

They climbed the ridge in silence, Steven's breathing growing more laboured with each step. The sand seemed to shift away beneath his feet, making progress frustratingly slow. When they finally crested the top, Steven's breath caught in his throat.

Below them stretched a vast excavation site, lit by portable floodlights that carved harsh shadows into the desert floor. Workers moved like ants around scaffolding and equipment, their voices carrying up through the still night air. At the centre of it all, a massive stone structure emerged from the sand—ancient hieroglyphs covering every visible surface.

"That's it," Anubis whispered. "The tomb of Alexander the Great."

Steven squinted at the scene below. "Those aren't archaeologists, are they?"

"Harrow's disciples. They've been digging for some time now." Anubis crouched lower, pulling Steven down beside him. "Look there, by the entrance."

A familiar figure in maroon coloured clothes stood near the tomb's opening, arms gesturing as he directed the workers. Even from this distance, Steven could make out the gleam of the crocodile-headed cane.

"Harrow," Steven breathed. "He's already here."

"We need to get down there," Anubis said as he surveyed the excavation site. "The entrance on the far side, there's less activity."

Steven nodded, though his stomach churned at the thought of descending into that maze of workers and floodlights wearing nothing but a nightgown. They picked their way down the slope, using the natural contours of the dunes as cover. Each step sent small avalanches of sand cascading ahead of them.

The voices grew clearer as they approached. Fragments of conversation in different languages mixed with English commands. Steven caught glimpses of armed guards stationed at regular intervals around the perimeter.

"Stay low," Anubis whispered, leading them behind a cluster of equipment containers. "When I signal, we make for that scaffolding."

Steven's bare feet had gone numb from the cold sand, but adrenaline kept him moving. They darted between shadows, using the harsh contrast created by the floodlights to mask their approach. The ancient tomb loomed larger with each step.

A guard wandered past their hiding spot, rifle slung casually over his shoulder. Anubis pressed Steven flat against the metal container until the footsteps faded.

"Now," Anubis breathed.

They sprinted across open ground to the scaffolding that surrounded the tomb's entrance. Steven's nightgown caught on a metal support beam, tearing with a soft rip. He freed himself and pressed against the stone wall, feeling the ancient stones rough beneath his palms.

The entrance lay open before them. A rectangular opening carved into living rock, with steps descending into darkness. Portable lights had been strung along the walls, casting shadows deeper into the tunnel.

"The workers are focused on the main excavation," Anubis observed, peering around the corner. "This entrance appears clear."

They slipped inside, the temperature dropping even further as they moved away from the desert sand above. The hieroglyphs covering the walls seemed to shift in the moving light, telling stories of gods and pharaohs, life and death. Steven shivered.

Their footsteps echoed despite their attempts at stealth. The tunnel sloped downward, branching into multiple passages that disappeared into shadow. Voices drifted from somewhere ahead. Not the rough commands of cult members, but something softer.

"This way," Anubis indicated a passage to their left. "I can sense something."

They followed the narrow corridor, the walls pressing closer together with each step. Ancient dust motes danced in the sparse light. The voices grew clearer. A woman speaking in hushed, urgent tones.

"Layla," Steven whispered, recognising the voice of his alter’s wife.

They rounded a corner and found themselves in a small chamber lit by a single battery-powered lantern. Layla crouched beside what appeared to be a damaged section of wall, her dark curly hair falling across her face as she examined something in her hands. She wore practical archaeological gear. Cargo pants, boots, and a jacket that looked far warmer than Steven's nightgown.

"Layla?" Steven called softly.

She spun around, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of Steven in his nightgown and the god beside him. Her hand moved instinctively toward something at her hip. A knife, Steven realised.

"Steven?" Her voice carried equal measures of relief and disbelief. "What are you doing here? And why are you dressed like that?" She gestured vaguely at his attire.

"Long story," Steven said, stepping forward. "What are you doing here? Harrow is just outside.”

"I've been tracking him for weeks. He's close to finding Ammit's ushabti."

Anubis moved deeper into the chamber, stepping around her. "The tomb extends much further down. Multiple levels, each more heavily guarded than the last."

"You brought backup," Layla observed, eyeing the god with professional interest rather than fear. "Good thinking."

“This is Anubis,” Steven said.

Layla’s mouth opened. “Like- the god?”

“Yeah. Another long story.”

“Right.” Layla looked over at Anubis, her eyes grazing over him. “Well let’s go. We have to get there before Harrow.”

Layla led them deeper into the tomb, her headlamp cutting through the darkness ahead. The passages grew wider as they descended, ancient paintings stretching across walls that hadn't seen light for millennia. Steven's bare feet slapped against stone that had been worn smooth by centuries of sand and wind.

"The burial chamber should be just ahead," Layla whispered, consulting a hand-drawn map. "If the hieroglyphs are accurate."

They emerged into a vast chamber dominated by a golden sarcophagus in the centre. The air hung thick from millennia of being cut off from the outside world, and Steven could taste dust on his tongue. Intricate carvings covered every surface, telling the story of Alexander's conquests and his transformation into a god-king.

"There," Anubis pointed to the sarcophagus. "The ushabti will be with the body."

Layla approached the golden coffin, running her hands along its edges. "Help me with this lid."

Steven and Anubis moved to assist her, their combined effort sliding the heavy cover aside with a grinding scrape that echoed through the chamber. Inside lay a mummified figure, wrapped in decayed linen and surrounded by grave goods that glittered in Layla's headlamp.

"Look for a small figurine," Layla said, carefully moving aside jewellery and ceremonial weapons. "It should be in here somewhere."

“Stay where you are.”

The voice cut through the chamber like a blade. Harrow stepped out of the shadows at the chamber's entrance, his cane tapping against stone. Behind him came a dozen armed followers, their weapons trained on the group around the sarcophagus.

"Layla El-Faouly. Steven Grant." Harrow's eyes settled on Anubis. "And an unexpected guest."

"You're too late, Harrow," Layla said. "We found it first."

Harrow’s voice was calm, controlled. “I don’t think we are. We'll take the ushabti and be on our way. No one has to get hurt."

Anubis stepped forward, placing himself between Harrow and the sarcophagus. "You're not taking anything from this tomb."

Harrow's gaze swept over Anubis, taking in his appearance with the measured assessment of someone sizing up an opponent. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. You are?"

"Someone who won't let you release Ammit," Anubis said, keeping his voice steady despite the rifles pointed in their direction.

"Ah, another misguided soul who thinks they understand the goddess's purpose." Harrow tapped his cane against the stone floor. "Tell me, young man, do you believe the wicked should go unpunished? That humanity should continue to spiral into chaos and violence?"

"I believe that judging people before they've committed crimes is playing god," Anubis shot back.

Harrow's laugh echoed through the chamber. "Playing god? What an interesting choice of words." He took a step closer, his disciples moving with him. “I can sense a power from you, something otherworldly."

Steven shifted nervously behind Anubis. Layla's hand remained near her hip, fingers flexing toward the knife she carried.

"The ancient ways died for a reason," Anubis said. "Ammit's justice isn't divine. It's tyranny."

"Strong convictions for someone so young." Harrow studied Anubis with renewed interest. "You remind me of someone I once knew. Full of righteous indignation, convinced that mercy was the answer to humanity's suffering."

"And what changed your mind?" Anubis asked, buying time as Layla's fingers crept toward the sarcophagus behind him.

"Experience. Watching humanity repeat the same mistakes, generation after generation. Waiting for people to choose goodness when evil is so much easier.” Harrow seemed genuinely saddened by what he said, convinced that he was in the right. That he was the good guy here. "Ammit offers a better path. Preventative justice. No more victims, no more suffering."

"Just death for crimes not yet committed," Anubis said flatly.

"Crimes that would inevitably happen." Harrow gestured to his disciples. "Enough debate. Stand aside and let us take what we came for. I'd rather not have to hurt you."

Anubis planted his feet wider, shoulders squared. "I'm not moving."

Harrow sighed, an expression of genuine regret crossing his weathered face. He gestured to his disciples. "Remove him."

Two men stepped forward, rifles slung as they reached for Anubis. The god waited until they were close enough to grab his arms before acting. 

Anubis twisted in their grip, throwing an elbow that connected with one man's jaw. The disciple stumbled back, but the other maintained his hold, fingers digging into Anubis's arm. The god struggled, feet slipping on the smooth stone as he tried to break free.

"Really not much of a fighter, are you?" The man yanked Anubis backward, off-balance.

Anubis kicked out, his heel catching the disciple in the knee. The man grunted but didn't release him. Another follower joined the fray, grabbing Anubis's other arm. Between the two of them, they forced him to his knees despite his resistance.

"Let me go," Anubis growled, thrashing against their combined strength. His movements lacked the practiced force of a warrior like Marc. More desperation than technique.

"Stay down," one of the men ordered, pressing a hand against Anubis's shoulder.

Steven lurched forward. "Get off him!"

A rifle barrel swung toward Steven, stopping him mid-step. Layla remained frozen by the sarcophagus, calculating odds that weren't in their favour.

Harrow approached the struggling god with measured steps. "I had hoped to avoid violence. Ammit seeks justice, not needless bloodshed." He gestured toward the sarcophagus. "Miss El-Faouly, retrieve the ushabti. Now."

"Don't you dare," Anubis snarled, still fighting against the hands holding him.

One of the disciples tightened his grip, making Anubis wince. "Shut up."

The man who'd been kicked earlier straightened up, raising his rifle. Blood trickled from his split lip where Anubis's elbow had connected. "Little shit needs to learn some manners."

“Wait." Harrow started, but his follower had already aimed his gun.

The gunshot cracked through the chamber, deafening in the enclosed space.

The bullet stopped.

Suspended in mid-air, hovering three inches from Anubis's chest. The metal gleamed in Layla's headlamp, perfectly motionless as if time itself had frozen around it. 

The bullet clattered to the stone floor, released from whatever force had held it. Harrow's eyes widened, his face transforming from regret to wonder in an instant.

"Extraordinary," he breathed, stepping closer to where Anubis knelt between the two disciples. "Not just otherworldly. A god. You’re one of them."

Anubis's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. The disciples holding him tightened their grips, suddenly aware of what they'd been manhandling.

"This changes everything." Harrow's voice was verging on excitement. He couldn’t believe his luck. "Ammit will be pleased beyond measure. To have one of the ancient ones as witness to her resurrection."

"I'm not your witness," Anubis spat. "I'm here to stop you."

"Bind him," Harrow ordered, gesturing to his followers. 

Two more disciples rushed forward with rope. Anubis struggled, but the men holding his arms kept him immobilized while others looped thick cord around his wrists. They worked quickly, binding his hands behind his back before wrapping more rope around his torso, pinning his arms.

"Now then, Miss El-Faouly. Retrieve the ushabti."

"Go to hell," Layla shot back.

Harrow sighed, nodding to the disciple nearest Steven. The man grabbed Steven's arm, yanking him forward and pressing a knife to his throat. The blade caught the light, sharp and hungry.

"Please don't make this difficult," Harrow said. "I have what I truly need." He gestured toward the bound god. "But I’ll get the ushabti one way or another. I’d just prefer you do it for me. However, if you force my hand, I’ll have no choice but to hurt Steven."

The knife pressed harder against Steven's throat. A thin line of red appeared.

"Alright!" Layla held up her hands. "Alright, just don't hurt him."

She turned back to the sarcophagus, reaching into the mummy wrappings with shaking hands. She pushed deep into the mouth of the mummy, grimacing at the feeling of old petrified mummy guts on her hand. Her fingers closed around something small and solid. When she withdrew her hand, a stone figurine rested in her palm. Ammit's distinctive crocodile head carved in perfect detail.

"Good choice," Harrow said.

"Hand it over," Harrow ordered, extending his palm.

Layla hesitated, fingers curling protectively around the ushabti. "What happens if I do?"

"You get to walk away." Harrow gestured to the disciples surrounding them. "You, specifically. The others will be coming with us."

"No deal." Layla's grip tightened on the figurine. "Let them go too."

Harrow's expression hardened. "I'm not negotiating. Give me the ushabti, or I have my followers start cutting pieces off your husband."

The knife pressed deeper against Steven's throat. He whimpered, eyes squeezed shut.

"Stop!" Layla thrust her hand forward, the stone figurine resting on her palm. "Here. Take it."

One of Harrow's disciples plucked the ushabti from her hand, passing it reverently to their leader. Harrow examined it with something close to worship, running his thumb across the ancient carving.

"Beautiful," he whispered. Then he looked up at Layla. "You may go."

"I'm not leaving without them."

"Yes, you are." Harrow nodded to his followers. Two of them grabbed Layla's arms, dragging her toward the chamber entrance despite her struggles. "Take a message to the other gods. Tell them we have one of their own. Tell them that if they want him returned safely, they'll stay out of our way while we resurrect Ammit."

"They'll kill you," Layla snarled, boots scraping against stone as she fought against the men hauling her backward. "You have no idea what you've started."

"On the contrary. The gods are remarkably predictable when it comes to their children." Harrow gestured dismissively. "They'll posture and threaten, but they won't risk harm coming to their precious boy. Not when cooperation ensures his safe return. Because you are Anubis, aren’t you? It only makes sense.” Harrow said, his eyes narrowing at the god.

The disciples forced Layla into the corridor. Her protests echoed back through the chamber, growing fainter as they dragged her toward the surface.

Harrow turned to Anubis, who knelt with rope cutting into his wrists. "You're going to be very useful. A divine hostage guarantees compliance from the entire pantheon."

"They won't negotiate with you," Anubis said, voice strained.

"We'll see." Harrow gestured to his remaining followers. "Bring them both. We have a resurrection to prepare."

[rosesofred7]

Putnam Psychiatric Hospital ch. 7

Artist/Author: rosesofred  Title: Putnam Psychiatric Hospital Fandom: Moon Knight, MCU, original story Summary:  Notes & Warnings: Links:

Isaac had no way of knowing what time it was. All he could do was sit there and wait. The voices had gone quiet a few minutes ago but he was still on edge. He knew what was coming. Maybe he could convince Dr. Harrow that he would start eating, that the feeding tube was unnecessary.

The door clicked open and Isaac's stomach dropped. He hadn’t even heard them coming. Dr. Harrow entered first, his stupid placating smile and soft eyes more than patronizing. Behind him came two orderlies Isaac didn't recognize. Broad-shouldered men with the kind of build that suggested they'd handled plenty of resistant patients. Jenny followed last, wheeling a metal cart laden with medical supplies.

"No, please." Isaac pushed himself backwards on the bed until his back hit the wall. "Dr. Harrow, I'll eat. I promise I'll eat everything you give me."

Harrow's expression remained impassive as he pulled on latex gloves with practiced efficiency. "I'm afraid that ship has sailed, Isaac. We've been patient with you, but your body can't wait any longer."

"I'll prove it to you." Isaac's voice cracked. "Bring me something now. Anything. I'll eat it all."

"You had your chance during lunch. And breakfast. And dinner yesterday." Harrow nodded to the orderlies. "Gentlemen, if you would."

The larger of the two men stepped forward. Isaac pressed himself harder against the wall, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Please, just give me one more chance. I know I can do it."

"Your promises have lost their value here." Harrow lifted a clear plastic tube from Jenny's cart, examining it in the light. "This is a nasogastric tube. It will deliver nutrition directly to your stomach until you demonstrate consistent oral intake."

Jenny began arranging supplies on the bedside table. Lubricating gel, a syringe, surgical tape. Her movements were mechanical, professional. She didn't meet Isaac's eyes.

"I'll start eating today. Right now. Jenny, tell him I'll eat."

Jenny's jaw tightened but she remained silent, focusing on preparing the equipment.

"The decision has been made." Harrow's tone carried the finality of a judge pronouncing his sentence. "Your weight has dropped to a dangerous level. We cannot allow further deterioration."

The first orderly reached for Isaac's arm. Isaac jerked away, nearly falling off the bed as he scrambled to the bottom of it.

"Don't touch me!"

"This can be done the easy way or the difficult way," Harrow said. "But it will be done."

Isaac's breath came in short, sharp gasps. His world now consisted of this room and that tube. And he didn’t want either. "You can't force this on me. I have rights."

"You forfeited those rights when you were admitted involuntarily." Harrow moved closer to the bed. "You're here because you're a danger to yourself and others. This tube will keep you alive while we work on the underlying issues."

The second orderly positioned himself on the other side of the bed, cutting off Isaac's escape route. Isaac's eyes darted between them, searching for an opening that didn't exist.

"Dr. Harrow, please. I'm begging you. Just one more day. Twenty-four hours."

"Twenty-four hours won't reverse the damage you've already done to your body." Harrow bent the tube, testing its flexibility between his fingers. "This is a medical necessity, not a punishment."

Isaac's hands shook as he grabbed for Jumper. The room felt too small, too bright, too full of people who wouldn't listen. His throat constricted at the thought of the tube sliding down it.

"I'll call my lawyer. You can't do this without my consent."

"Your psychiatric hold supersedes any legal objections." Harrow's voice remained maddeningly calm. "Proceed."

The orderlies moved with coordinated precision. The larger man grabbed Isaac's shoulders while the second seized his wrists, pinning him against the mattress. Isaac thrashed against their grip, his body twisting desperately.

"No, no, no!" His voice pitched higher as panic flooded his system. "Get off me!"

Jumper tumbled from his grasp, hitting the floor with a soft thud that barely registered over his racing heartbeat. The stuffed rabbit lay forgotten as Isaac bucked against the hands holding him down.

"Hold him steady," Jenny murmured, positioning herself at the head of the bed. She'd definitely done this before. Her movements were precise, clinical. She didn’t hesitate.

Isaac jerked his head from side to side, but the first orderly's massive hand clamped down on his forehead, forcing his skull back against the pillow.

"Please don't do this." Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. "I'll be good. I'll eat everything."

Jenny's fingers probed his right nostril, checking the passage. Isaac whimpered and pulled against the orderly’s hands, his legs kicking uselessly at the blankets.

"Breathe through your mouth," she instructed, her voice calm. "This will be easier if you don't fight it."

The tip of the tube pressed against his nostril. Isaac's stomach lurched as he felt the foreign object begin its descent. He gagged immediately, his body rejecting the intrusion.

"Swallow," Jenny commanded. "Work with me here."

Isaac couldn't swallow. He couldn't breathe. The tube pushed deeper, scraping against tender tissue as it navigated the curve of his nasal passage. His throat spasmed in protest.

"Almost there," Harrow observed from his position near the cart. "You're doing well, Jenny."

Isaac's world narrowed to the burning sensation in his nose and throat. The tube felt too thick, too long. His gag reflex triggered again, sending bile up his esophagus only to meet the obstruction sliding down it.

The orderlies' grips tightened as Isaac's struggles intensified. Their fingers pressed hard into his skin, but he couldn't stop fighting. Every instinct screamed at him to escape, to remove the thing violating his body.

Jenny pushed the tube deeper. Isaac felt it hit the back of his throat and curve downward toward his stomach. His vision blurred as his body fought against the invasion it couldn't prevent. It felt like assault.

The tube hit his gag reflex again and Isaac's body convulsed. Stomach bile surged up his throat, meeting the plastic obstruction halfway. The acidic burn mixed with the sharp pain of the tube scraping against inflamed tissue.

"Suction," Jenny called out, her voice sharp.

One of the orderlies shifted his grip, freeing a hand to reach for the equipment on the cart. Isaac used the moment to wrench his head to the side, retching violently. Clear fluid mixed with stomach acid splattered across the white pillow.

"Hold him still." Jenny's fingers worked at his face, wiping away the mess. "I need to advance it past the esophageal sphincter."

Isaac's throat felt raw, torn. Each swallow brought fresh agony as the tube continued its relentless descent. His nasal passages burned like fire, tears streaming down his cheeks to pool in his ears.

Harrow stepped forward, abandoning his position by the cart. His hands joined the orderlies', holding Isaac’s head firmly in place.

"Nearly finished," Dr. Harrow murmured. "Just a bit more cooperation."

Isaac bucked harder against the additional restraint, his body arching off the mattress. Three sets of hands now pinned him down, making resistance futile. The weight of their combined grip pressed him into the thin hospital mattress until he could barely expand his chest to breathe.

"Please," Isaac gasped around the tube. His voice came out distorted, muffled by the plastic invading his throat. "Can't... breathe..."

"You can breathe," Jenny corrected, not looking up from her work. "Through your mouth. The tube won't interfere with your airway."

But Isaac's panicked brain couldn't process her words. All he felt was choking, drowning on dry land. The tube pushed deeper, sliding past his vocal cords with a sensation like swallowing a snake. His throat convulsed around the foreign object, muscles contracting in rhythmic spasms.

The tube reached Isaac's stomach with a sensation he felt rather than heard. A hollow puncture, like breaking through the surface of water. Jenny tested the placement, drawing back slightly on the syringe attached to the tube's end. Clear gastric fluid confirmed the proper positioning.

"Excellent work." Harrow released his grip on Isaac's head, stepping back to observe. "Secure it properly."

Isaac lay gasping, his body trembling from the ordeal. The tube protruded from his right nostril, taped to his cheek in a neat line. Each breath brought awareness of the foreign object lodged in his throat, a constant reminder of his powerlessness.

Jenny worked to apply strips of medical tape to anchor the tube to Isaac's face, still refusing to meet his eyes. The adhesive pulled at his skin as she smoothed each piece into place. Her fingers were gentle but impersonal, treating him like a procedure rather than a person.

"The feeding schedule will begin immediately," Harrow announced, making notes on his clipboard. "Three times daily, starting with a balanced nutrition formula."

Isaac turned his head toward the wall, unable to look at the doctor's satisfied expression. The tube shifted with his movement, scraping against already raw tissue. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through his stomach.

The orderlies released their grip, stepping back from the bed. Isaac remained motionless, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths around the tube. The fight had drained from him completely, leaving only the hollow ache of defeat.

Dr. Harrow bent to retrieve Jumper from the floor, his movements casual. As he straightened, something caught his eye. Small tablets scattered across the linoleum, partially hidden beneath the bed frame.

"What do we have here?"

Isaac's stomach clenched as Harrow crouched down, collecting the pills one by one. The psychiatrist's fingers moved methodically, gathering each tablet with the precision of someone building evidence.

"Interesting." Harrow held up a small white pill, examining it in the fluorescent light. "Risperidone." He picked up another. "And Sertraline."

Jenny looked over from organizing the feeding supplies. Her eyes widened as she recognized the medications.

Harrow picked up each tablet, holding it in his palm. "How long have you been hoarding your medication, Isaac?"

Isaac kept his face turned toward the wall, the tape pulling at his cheek when he swallowed around the tube. His throat felt like sandpaper.

"Jenny, check his bedding thoroughly." Harrow ordered. "Strip everything down to the mattress."

Jenny moved to the foot of the bed, her earlier clinical detachment replaced by something sharper. She pulled back the thin blanket, shaking it out with brisk movements. Isaac slowly stood up, wobbling as she reached under the mattress, sweeping underneath with one hand. More pills tumbled to the floor. White and yellow tablets.

Jenny bent to pick them up, handing them all to Dr. Harrow.

"Days' worth, I'd estimate." Harrow straightened, his fist closed around the pills he'd collected. "This explains your deteriorating condition despite our treatment protocol."

Isaac's fingers curled into his scrubs. The tube shifted with each breath, a plastic snake he couldn't dislodge. His voice came out hoarse, distorted. “It’s poison.”

"Poison?" Harrow's eyebrows lifted, his voice taking on that particular tone doctors used when addressing delusional patients. "Isaac, these medications are specifically prescribed to help stabilize your condition."

Isaac's hand moved to his throat, fingers touching the tape that held the feeding tube in place. "You don't understand. They cause brain damage."

"And where did you hear that?” Dr. Harrow asked.

Isaac paused, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish about his source. “… Reddit.”

Dr. Harrow almost laughed. But he kept his professional visage neutral, nodding his head instead. “Isaac, psychiatric medications do not cause brain damage. There’s no studies done that would suggest that.”

Isaac's jaw clenched around the feeding tube. "You're lying."

"I'm not lying, Isaac." Harrow pocketed the collected pills. "But clearly you've been reading misinformation online instead of trusting medical professionals."

"Medical professionals like you?" Isaac's voice came out scratchy, his words laced with anger. "You just shoved a tube down my nose without my consent."

“Because you refused to eat. We’re only doing this for your own good, Isaac.” Dr. Harrow explained.

"My own good?" Isaac's voice crackled with rage. "You're torturing me."

Dr. Harrow's expression hardened, the veneer of compassionate psychiatrist slipping away. "You've been non-compliant with your medication regimen since you got here. That ends now."

Isaac sat down on the bare mattress, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. The feeding tube tugged at his nostril with the movement, sending fresh waves of discomfort through already inflamed tissue.

"Jenny." Harrow turned to the nurse, his tone sharp with self satisfaction. "I need you to retrieve the medical restraints from the supply closet. The leather wrist and ankle cuffs, not the fabric ones."

Jenny's face went pale. "Dr. Harrow, is that really necessary? He's already got the feeding tube in place."

"He's demonstrated a pattern of deception and non-compliance that poses a serious risk to his treatment. We cannot trust him to take his medications voluntarily."

Isaac's head snapped toward them, his eyes wide. "No. You can't restrain me. I haven't done anything wrong. I’ve still only got two strikes!"

"Your hoarding of medication constitutes a serious violation of hospital policy," Harrow replied. "Combined with your refusal to eat and the incident with the plastic knife, it demonstrates a clear pattern of self-harm."

Isaac pressed himself harder against the wall, his legs sticking to the bare plastic mattress. "I wasn't harming myself. I was protecting myself from your poison."

"Delusions about medication being poison are a symptom of your untreated psychosis." Harrow said. "The restraints will ensure you receive proper treatment."

Jenny shifted uncomfortably by the door, her hand hovering over the handle. "Doctor, perhaps we could try a less restrictive approach first? Supervised medication administration?"

"We tried supervised administration. He found ways around it." Harrow said with a barely concealed smile. "This patient requires a more controlled environment."

Jenny's shoulders lowered slightly but she remained professional. She cast one last glance at Isaac huddled on the mattress before turning toward the door, leaving to get the medical restraints.

The click of the door closing sent ice through Isaac's veins. He was alone with Harrow and the two orderlies, the feeding tube a constant burning reminder of how powerless he'd become.

"No, wait." Isaac scrambled to his feet, nearly losing his balance. "Dr. Harrow, you don't need restraints. I'll take the medications. I'll cooperate."

"Your compliance is no longer voluntary, Isaac." Harrow checked his watch with casual indifference. "Jenny should return momentarily with the appropriate equipment."

Isaac's breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts around the plastic invading his throat. The walls seemed to press closer, the fluorescent lights too bright, too harsh. He took a step toward the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" The larger orderly moved to block his path, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Isaac pivoted around him, but the second orderly was already there, cutting him off. They'd positioned themselves like shepherds herding livestock, patient and methodical.

"Please, I can't be restrained." Isaac's voice cracked. "I have claustrophobia. It'll make me worse."

"Your psychological comfort is secondary to your medical treatment." Harrow observed Isaac's growing panic with clinical interest, unmoved by the man’s panic.

Isaac's hand flew to his face, fingers clawing at the tape securing the feeding tube. The adhesive tore at his skin as he ripped it away, but he didn't care. The plastic snake had to come out.

"Stop him!" Harrow barked.

The larger orderly lunged forward, grabbing Isaac's wrist just as his fingers wrapped around the tube. Isaac yanked hard, feeling the plastic slide up through his throat with a sensation like drowning in reverse.

"No!" The orderly's grip tightened, crushing Isaac's wrist bones together. "Let go of that tube!"

Isaac pulled harder, his other hand joining the first. The tube moved another inch, scraping against raw tissue as it retreated through his nasal passage. Blood mixed with mucus dripped from his nostril.

The second orderly tackled Isaac from behind, arms wrapping around his torso in a crushing bear hug. Isaac's feet left the ground as the man lifted him, but his hands remained locked around the tube.

"Get his hands!" The first orderly pried at Isaac's fingers, bending them backwards until the joints screamed in protest.

Isaac's grip loosened for a split second. The tube slipped back down his throat, the burning sensation doubling as inflamed tissue was scraped raw again. He gagged violently, his body convulsing in the orderly's arms.

"Pin him down!" Harrow commanded from his safe distance by the wall.

Both orderlies slammed Isaac onto the bare mattress, their combined weight pressing him into the plastic surface. One pinned his shoulders while the other grabbed his wrists, stretching his arms above his head.

Isaac bucked against their grip, his legs thrashing wildly. His face felt sticky where blood had dried around his nostril.

"Hold still!" The larger orderly pressed harder on Isaac's shoulders, his knee digging into Isaac's ribs. "You're only making it worse for yourself!"

Isaac's chest heaved as he fought for air around the tube and the crushing weight on his torso. Each breath felt insufficient, suffocating. Tears leaked from his eyes, running down his face as he gasped.

The door opened with a soft click that cut through Isaac's laboured breathing. Jenny entered carrying a canvas bag, her face carefully neutral as she took in the scene. Isaac pinned beneath the orderlies, blood crusted around his nostril, the feeding tube still protruding from his face.

"I brought the restraints," she announced quietly, setting the bag on the bedside table.

Isaac's struggles intensified at the sight of the canvas bag. "No, please, Jenny. You know this isn't right."

Jenny's hands paused on the bag's zipper. For a moment, something flickered across her expression. Doubt, perhaps. Or guilt.

"Jenny," Harrow said evenly. "The restraints."

She unzipped the bag, removing leather cuffs lined with fleece padding. The metal buckles caught the fluorescent light as she laid them out on the table. Four cuffs connected by adjustable straps designed to secure a patient's limbs to the bed frame.

"Please don't do this," Isaac whispered, his voice hoarse around the tube. "I'll take the medications. I'll eat. I'll do whatever you want."

"Your promises can’t be trusted," Harrow observed cooly. "Start with his ankles."

Jenny picked up the first restraint, her movements slow and reluctant. The leather felt heavy in her hands as she approached the foot of the bed. Isaac's legs kicked frantically, but the orderly holding his shoulders shifted position, using his body weight to pin Isaac's lower half.

"I'm sorry," Jenny murmured as she wrapped the cuff around Isaac's left ankle. The words were barely audible, spoken more to herself than to him.

The leather tightened against Isaac's skin as Jenny secured the buckle. She attached the connecting strap to the bed frame, testing the tension. Isaac's leg was now anchored to the mattress, his range of movement severely limited.

The second ankle cuff followed, Jenny’s eyes never meeting his as she buckled the leather around Isaac's right leg. The restraint pulled taut against the bed frame with a soft click of metal on metal.

Isaac's breathing came in short, panicked bursts. The tube shifted with each exhale, a constant reminder of how thoroughly trapped he'd become. His legs felt like dead weight now, useless appendages pinned to the mattress.

"Wrists next," Harrow instructed, checking his watch like he was waiting in line at the grocery store.

The orderly holding Isaac's arms adjusted his grip, stretching Isaac's right arm toward the head of the bed. Isaac's shoulder joint screamed in protest as the man forced his limb into position for the restraint.

Jenny picked up the third cuff, her professional mask slipping for just a moment. Her eyes met Isaac's, and he saw something there. She felt bad for him. He tried to persuade her, his voice raw and desperate. "Jenny, please. Don’t do this.”

She looked away, focusing on the leather in her hands. "I'm just following orders."

Jenny wrapped the cuff around his wrist, her fingers working the buckle and tightening the restraint until the leather bit into his skin. The connecting strap stretched his arm toward the corner of the bed frame, leaving him spread-eagle across the mattress.

Isaac pulled against the restraint, testing its strength. The leather held firm, designed to withstand much more force than his weakened body could produce. His wrist burned where the cuff rubbed against bone. It was already unbearable.

"Last one," the smaller orderly grunted, grabbing Isaac's left arm.

Isaac's free hand clawed at the feeding tube one final time when the orderly readjusted his grip, taking the opportunity to try again. He yanked hard, feeling the tube slide up through his throat.

The orderly grabbed his hand, prying it off the tube and pulling it too far back. Isaac yelped as it was twisted back for Jenny to restrain him. She leaned across the bed, buckling the cuff into place around his wrist and then securing it to the bed. He was completely immobilized now.

Isaac tested each restraint in turn, pulling against the leather cuffs that held him spread across the mattress. The fleece lining did nothing to soften the bite of the straps against his wrists and ankles. He was completely helpless.

"Please let me go." His voice came out muffled, each word scraping against his raw throat. "I'll be good. I promise I'll be good."

Dr. Harrow nodded slightly, clearly pleased with his submission. "The restraints will remain in place until you demonstrate consistent compliance with your treatment plan."

Isaac turned his head as far as the tube would allow, looking at Jenny who was packing the empty canvas bag. "Jenny, this is torture."

Jenny's hands stilled on the zipper for a moment, but she didn't respond. She folded the bag carefully, avoiding his gaze.

"What if I need to use the bathroom?" Isaac asked, panic creeping into his voice as the reality of his situation hit him. "You can't just leave me here like this."

Dr. Harrow looked over at the nurse. "Jenny, please retrieve a bedpan from the supply closet."

Isaac's face flushed hot with humiliation. "No. No, you can’t make me use a bedpan, that’s humiliating!”

"Your choices have been removed from the equation," Harrow replied. "Your bodily functions will be managed by the staff until you're deemed stable enough for supervised bathroom privileges."

Jenny headed for the door again. Isaac watched her leave, his last hope for mercy walking away without a backward glance.

"This is degrading," Isaac whispered, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. The salt stung where the tape had torn his skin earlier. "You're treating me like an animal."

The larger orderly moved toward the foot of the bed, reaching for the blanket that had been tossed aside during the struggle. His thick fingers grabbed the thin hospital fabric, shaking it out with brisk movements.

"What are you doing?" Isaac asked.

"Making you comfortable," the orderly replied, his tone suggesting this was routine. He spread the blanket across Isaac's legs, tucking the edges under the mattress.

Isaac jerked against his restraints as the fabric settled over him. "Don't touch me."

The orderly ignored his protests, moving to the head of the bed. He grabbed the pillow that had fallen to the floor during the tube insertion, fluffing it between his massive hands. Blood stained one corner where Isaac had retched earlier.

"Your head needs support," the orderly explained, lifting Isaac's head to slide the pillow underneath. His fingers were surprisingly gentle despite their size.

Isaac twisted his head away. "I don't want your help."

"Hospital policy," the orderly said, adjusting the pillow until Isaac's neck rested at the proper angle. "Patients in restraints must be positioned correctly to prevent injury."

The man's hands smoothed the sheet across Isaac's lap. Isaac's breathing quickened as the cotton settled over his torso like a shroud.

"Get it off me." Isaac pulled frantically against the wrist restraints, the leather cuffs biting deeper into his skin. "I don’t want to be covered, I wanna get up.”

The sheet under him on the mattress had been tangled and torn off the bed in the struggle, so Isaac was laying on the thin plastic of the mattress with a sheet on top of him now. It was uncomfortable, to say the least.

The door opened again and Jenny returned, carrying a stainless steel bedpan that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Isaac's stomach clenched at the sight of it, his humiliation complete.

"I don't need that," Isaac said quickly, his words tumbling together. "I can wait. I can hold it."

Jenny set the bedpan on the bedside table next to the feeding supplies, the metal ringing softly against the surface. "Hospital policy requires we check on restrained patients every two hours. This is for when you need it."

"I won't need it." Isaac's voice cracked with desperation. "Please, just let me up to use the bathroom when I have to go."

Dr. Harrow hummed. "The restraints are not recreational, Isaac. They're a medical necessity. Your bathroom needs will be attended to by staff."

Isaac's breathing quickened, each inhale making the tube shift uncomfortably in his throat. The leather cuffs already chafed his wrists raw where he'd fought against them. His ankles throbbed where the restraints cut in.

Jenny approached the side of the bed, her movements clinical. Isaac's eyes widened as she reached for the waistband of his scrub pants.

"What are you doing?" Isaac jerked against the restraints, the leather cuffs cutting deeper into his wrists. "Don't touch me."

"I need to position the bedpan properly," Jenny explained, her voice flat and professional. "Standard procedure for restrained patients."

"No!" Isaac bucked against the restraints as Jenny's fingers found the waistband of his pants. "I don't need it. Leave my clothes alone."

Jenny's hands paused for a moment, but Dr. Harrow's presence behind her seemed to steel her resolve. She pulled the scrubs down.

"Please don't do this." Isaac's voice broke as Jenny began working the scrub pants down his hips. The thin cotton scraped against his skin as she tugged the garment past his thighs. "This is humiliating." He felt completely vulnerable now, stripped of even this basic dignity.

Jenny lifted the stainless steel bedpan from the table, the metal cold against her palms. Isaac's face burned with shame as she positioned herself at the side of the bed.

"I can't do this," Isaac whispered, tears forming in his eyes again. "Please, just let me use the bathroom like a person."

"Lift your hips," Jenny instructed, ignoring his pleas.

"I won't." Isaac pressed himself harder into the mattress, every muscle tensed against cooperation.

The larger orderly stepped forward without being asked, sliding his massive hands under Isaac's lower back. With one smooth motion, he lifted Isaac's hips off the mattress while Jenny slid the cold metal bedpan underneath him.

Isaac's body convulsed at the touch of steel against his skin. The bedpan felt like ice, sending shockwaves through his nervous system. When the orderly lowered him back down, the metal bit into his tailbone.

"There," Jenny said, stepping back from the bed. She grabbed the blanket and pulled it up over Isaac's body, covering him from chest to ankles. "That should keep you warm."

Isaac turned his face toward the wall, unable to look at any of them. The feeding tube scraped against his raw throat as he swallowed back sobs. The bedpan pressed against his most private areas, a constant reminder of how completely they'd stripped away his humanity. It was hell in here.

[whumppromptoftheday]

whumpee comes home one day, eyes puffy and nose red. caretaker tries to stop them before they make it to their room and lock the door.

but they don't get there in time, and the door slams and whumpee breaks down as soon as the lock turns, curling into themself.

"whumpee?" caretaker prods on the other side of the door, "whumpee, what happened?"

[zedd-undead]

Whumpee who has gotten to the point in torture sessions that they just space out. They used to scream insults and put up a real fight but now…

In their mind they aren’t broken, just.. going away for a bit, they can’t even help it at this point. In their mind they aren’t broken because they aren’t begging. But everyone else sees the shell of who they once were. And eventually they realize that they’ve just been sitting there

and taking it