Marc Spector Fic
Reader x Marc Spector
Warnings: Angst
The sun was going down and they hadn’t spoken a single word. She didn’t know how many days had passed without so much as a ‘goodnight’, and she found herself staring at his sleeping face. His hair was as wavy as a sea, as dark as the mud left on his boots. His lips were hills she wouldn’t mind dying on.
Marc had been so quiet lately. It started slowly— so slowly that she didn’t notice. But then it hit her. One day, he woke up and didn’t look at her once. Got up, got dressed, and disappeared out the front door without as much as saying goodbye. He didn’t come back for days, which was normal for Marc. He was an avatar, after all. But then when he finally came home to her, he didn’t say hello.
Whenever she tried to hold his hand, he pulled away.
Whenever she tried to ask how he was, he was silent.
Whenever she tried to kiss him, he turned his head.
She was desperate to understand him. But had she fooled herself in thinking there could be any understanding of Marc Spector? Was she lying here next to him in bed, wondering how to connect with him, and only wasting her time?
Night was the only time she got to get close to him. These were the only moments she got to feel his skin against hers anymore, when she reached slowly across the sheets to hold his hand. Or to stroke his cheek. Or to kiss his temple.
And yet, she still felt so alone. So disconnected from the man she loved, and whom she thought loved her, too. She didn’t know where she had gone wrong, or what she had done to deserve this. A part of her had an inkling that he was going through something— but wasn’t that why she was here? To be his partner. To take half of the burden so he wasn’t crushed by the weight of it.
Their relationship had been made up of isolation, anxiety, fear, love, loss and turmoil sprinkled with moments of beauty. Finding motivation to tail along with his lifestyle in this emotional landscape had been a very heavy thing. Love was made. Tears were shed. And still she couldn’t imagine a future without him being a part of it.
She would stay here in this bed with him until a hill grew over her, with a river by its side, a selfish view and no memory of anything else. If he was the river, she’d be the sky, or something more solid, to pin this memory to hers. This was all she had left. Her hand resting against his cheek as she anchored herself.
Marc loved like sand, remembered like water, drifted through her unexplored with indifference now. He felt like a ghost in their home; but she believed in him. Here, lying next to his sleeping silhouette, she listened to the steadiness of his breathing as she tried to travel his thoughts. She wanted him to translate her into his language. To learn her by heart as a song learned its singer.
If she stayed, she knew she’d feel erased.
If she fell asleep, she knew Marc would appear in her dreams. He would say ‘I’m not happy anymore’. His cologne would be somewhere in the distance and she’d weep, because it would remind her of a thought that all he wanted was to watch the world burn, and right now she had the audacity to place a fire extinguisher in his hands and hope for the best.
She didn’t want to wake up and remember that loneliness was making a burnt cathedral of them both, that his hands played arsonist on everything they touched of hers. That sometimes people stopped doing things because their arms were tired from digging graves under the banner of cold Gods, and that flames came from coals that she felt she was now carrying.
Even forest fires had a season.
And as the sun came up through the bedroom window, she wondered if this was theirs.
Frank Castle x reader
Warnings: Explicit Language, Angst, Mentions of violence, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Physical Injuries
Length: 2k Words
But all because it felt like old times, it didn’t mean it was. Two years was a long time, and if the apartment walls could talk they would have been telling him all the ways she, too, had changed.
There was very little left of the soldier he had met. Now, half heaved over herself, was just a woman made of chaos. She was a closed discussion with no beginning or middle. Instead of the meat, she had somehow become the maggot. Went from soldier to hitman. From hitman to…this.
It had been three days since she had been home.
Home was the shittiest one bedroom, one bathroom apartment in the darkest part of New York City. It was a kitchen tap that never stopped dripping, a living room with one leather couch that was half bleached from the sun that pushed itself through the dirty windows. Windows that were covered in newspapers. But at least it was somewhere for her to rest her bones.
And how her bones ached.
Fighting a few gangsters wasn’t anything new to her. Yet when she stalked her way into that garage, she found she had miscalculated the number of friends they’d have during his recon phase. Two weeks of searching, of waiting, of watching— down the fucking drain. And she was surprised a few of her teeth didn’t go down with it.
Big guns, lots of ammo, and a huge space to cover. The disadvantage was all hers from the moment she made herself known, and the rest of them followed suit. But she thought she had things handled until the weight of a heavy chain swung around her throat and yanked her off of her feet. Landed on her back with bone-breaking force before her attacker began to drag her around like an abused cat.
The only reason she got out alive was because a bullet went through his head. A sniper shot from somewhere far enough away that she didn’t even hear it. Barely noticed a window in the garage shatter while she strangled out her breath, clawed at her neck and prayed her windpipe wasn’t crushed.
A ghost had saved her. Another jackass she now had to be weary of— they had obviously seen her there at the crime scene, had watched long enough and waited. Which meant they had an agenda of their own, and she needed to know if it would put them in her way or not.
It was all she could think about as she tossed her apartment keys into the bowl by the front door and staggered to her sink. The stink of blood was all over her. Clinging to her skin, clothes and hair. It wasn’t all her own, but she knew how much red she coughed up when the chain went slack around her throat. Could feel the break of the rib rattle at her side every time she inhaled and exhaled.
As much as she hated to admit mission failure, she knew most of the blood was her own.
She fucked this one up.
It felt like she was four minutes from a heart attack as she pressed a warm washcloth to her face and began to scrub at her skin. She knew a layer would be missing before she could see her own colour again. Everything tingled with agony. There was so much pain running through her body that it all blurred together, ran her on autopilot.
That instinct was the only thing that moved her when she heard the floorboard creak in her living room. Her limbs moved on their own to drop the cloth onto the old hardwood as she spun, kitchen knife flinging from her hand.
It flew through the air with the quietest whistle, only to be swiftly sidestepped by a massive figure dressed in all black. Combat boots lazily tied, laces stretched and well-loved. A hood pulled low over a face that glowered at her from its shadow.
“Still ain’t fast enough,” a familiar gruff voice huffed, hands in his pockets.
She felt herself let out a laugh. It was a crazed sound, one that was borderline delirious and made up of only amused disbelief. Leaning back against the counter, her body began to relax. Adrenaline was sweating itself out of her and she knew it was only a matter of time before she crashed. So, while it was lasting, she wanted to use it.
Needed to keep herself on her two feet if she was gonna greet an old friend.
“Frank fucking Castle. You look pretty alive for a dead man.”
He pulled his hood back, ran his hand over his head. She stared at him, wondering what she must look like from his point of view if he looked this different after two years. His clean military buzz-cut was replaced with soft waves that brushed against his neck, nose was a big more crooked too. Broken a few more times. Those soft eyes of his were now hardened and watchful, moons beneath them as though he wouldn’t be able to remember when he last had a good night of sleep if she dared to ask.
The only thing familiar about him was his imposing beauty. Dark and wonderful.
“And you look like shit,” Frank said to her in reply, dropping the duffel bag from his shoulder onto her couch. “Serves you right, getting into situations you can’t always get yourself out of.”
With a roll of her eyes, she pressed her lips together. Of course. “And do I have you to thank for that expert shot?”
She remembered the gasp of relief that squeaked out of her when that chain went slack. Being dragged against a concrete floor by a garrote had felt like she was going to be ripped apart. Head at one end of the garage, body twitching on the other. But she didn’t feel entirely grateful; if he had been watching her, it would’ve been nice if he had stepped in a bit earlier. Maybe even given her a helping hand through the whole fight.
But he wouldn’t be her Frank if he didn’t see a lesson in it that needed teaching the hard way. There was nothing better than a bit of tough love. They learned that together on the battle field back in Iraq.
“You don’t have to thank me. Because now you owe me,” he answered with a chuckle, finding her annoyance amusing.
“Will a beer suffice?” she asked, stumbling toward her scratched up refrigerator, barely being able to open it when she began to feel the pain making itself known again.
Somehow, he ended up behind her. His strong arm snaked under hers and plucked the first dark bottle he could reach, and popped the cap off the edge of the countertop. Just like old times— like there wasn’t a thing wrong in the world, and this was just a pit stop for them to enjoy. A beer, a bit of takeout, and maybe a cigarette smoked out an open window.
But all because it felt like old times, it didn’t mean it was. Two years was a long time, and if the apartment walls could talk they would have been telling him all the ways she, too, had changed.
There was very little left of the soldier he had met. Now, half heaved over herself, was just a woman made of chaos. She was a closed discussion with no beginning or middle. Instead of the meat, she had somehow become the maggot. Went from soldier to hitman. From hitman to…this.
A woman who looked death in the eye and laughed, daring for it to take her. Sometimes, she even wished it did. Especially now, as she declined to take a beer for herself knowing that it would do nothing to her but burn. And she didn’t want any more pain.
Didn’t know if she could take it right now.
“Glad you’re still so easily satisfied—” she began, suddenly feeling something catch in her throat.
She sputtered and coughed, feeling like she was choking on her own oxygen. She fell with the impact of the shudder, crashing to her knees and elbows, desperately trying to push something up. The taste in her mouth was vile. Sour and coppery, mixed with salty sweat as it rolled down her face. She was suffocating.
Until she felt something hot on her tongue and spat it out.
A huge black and red blob that showed her reflection as she stared at it, completely dumbfounded. It had been a while since she had so much internal damage.
“Shit, sweetheart,” Frank hissed, nearly spilling his beer as he set it on the counter and knelt next to her. Brushed her hair back from her face as she took one deep breath in. Then out. Then rolled onto her back like a dying animal.
She could feel the blood from her mouth drip down her jaw and toward her ears as she laid there, ready to never move from this spot ever again. “This? It’s nothing,” she said hoarsely. “I’d rather look like this than a hipster.”
He chuckled at her, the sound filled with little amusement as he hooked one arm under her knees and the other to cradle behind her shoulders. She heard herself whimper as he lifted her off of the floor. Like she weighed no more than a bag of feathers to him.
“Shut your mouth before I decided to drop you,” he said, a softness to his face as he carried her across the apartment and into her bedroom.
It was small. Had only a side table, a rack of clothes against the wall, and a mattress on the floor with a lamp in the corner. But it was comfortable enough. She had hid herself away here enough days, hiding from her own demons, and had grown to love its bare necessities.
Frank set her down gently, having to kneel in order to set her down. He had pulled back her blankets to make sure she could be covered up again, taking off her boots before he did so. Tucking her in like precious cargo being secured in the back of a plane.
It made her wonder where he had gone for two years. Made her wonder why she hadn’t been good enough for him to stay. They had fought alongside each other both on the battlefield, and in this concrete jungle of a city. And just when she looked at him and felt brave enough to tell him how beautiful he looked even when covered in someone else’s blood, or sat on the floor with tears in his eyes and no hope in his hands….he left her.
Just like everyone else.
And when he brushed her hair back from her forehead and began to stand, starting for the bedroom door, she felt like he was doing it again. Was leaving before she could ask him how he was, and what he had been doing living as a ghost, and why he was here if he was happy enough being dead instead of here. With her.
It was worse than any physical pain that could’ve been inflicted.
She shot her hand out, gripping a spot of loose fabric on the back of his black jeans. She didn’t know why she did it, her eyes fluttering shut against her will. There was a terrible fear bubbling in her chest saying if she fell asleep, she’d wake up and realize he was just a dream. Just another ghost coming and going.
“I’m glad you came back,” she whispered.
The fabric slipped out of her grasp and she could feel nothing but weight overcome her. Exhaustion and pain were drugging her, and she didn’t care about the dried blood in her bedsheets, or the agony she would be in when morning came. Maybe she was dead already and didn’t know it yet. Maybe she was here, alone, just like she always was.
And it was why she wasn’t sure if she imagined the edge of the mattress dipping next to her. She wasn’t sure if the softness of something pressing against her cheek was real; if the warm breath she felt was really there or not.
All she knew for certain as she fell into sleep was that if it was real, she may not remember in the morning.
Maybe Frank knew that too, because when he spoke he did so after unconsciousness took over her. “It’s good to be home.”
“I hope requests are still open! 😊 so i’d like an imagine where the reader was a soldier with frank castle, and when they came back and frank lost his family she helped him with his revenge and they get romantically involved. You writing is brilliant, love you 😍 (Sorry for my english ☺)”
can we have kissing your partners wounds with frank castle please :)
I am no longer taking requests from this prompt list.
So full disclosure, I've never written for Frank before? So I am sorry if this is uhhhh not it. Especially because it got longer than I meant it to.
Warnings: Vigilante!Reader; angst; canon-typical violence; mentions of blood and wounds
He crashed into your life, bloody and hurting.
You thought, at first, that this was standard a break-in, a robbery, something. The man's eyes swept over your table—the stack of mail, and the unfinished dinner there.
"Gauze."
That was the only thing he said to you—gauze. You led the way to the bathroom and rifled through your things. You did your best with the request, cobbled together rubbing alcohol and a box of tampons. He took one look at the box decorated with flowers and colorful swirls, and his brows had given an angry, unimpressed arch.
"I—I don't have anything else," You flubbed.
"Nothin'?"
"You're not the only one that has rough nights. I haven't restocked."
He just made himself at home in your bathroom, tugging off his vest and his shirt and dropping them to the ground. You didn't gripe, even as you saw blood smear against the tile; the man still had a gun strapped to his hip, and you could see the bulge of another in his ankle holster.
"I seen you," He commented. His low, gruff voice caught you off-guard whenever he spoke, grating over some part of you that would be far more intrigued if you weren't so freaked out.
"What?"
"Around. Saw you bust up a deal a week ago, 53rd and 11th."
Your stomach twisted with the feeling of being caught out. The man glanced at you, even as he doused his hands with rubbing alcohol, then turned the bottle to the weeping wound on his side.
"You gonna tell me that wasn't you?" He added. It was stilted for just a second as he winced through sterilizing the wound. "That why you don't have any gauze?"
"...Maybe," You muttered, glancing between his wound and his eyes. He glanced down in turn, setting the bottle aside. You took up one of the tampons, ripping it out of the packaging, sliding it from the applicator, and beginning to unroll the cotton. You passed it over to him, nodding at his muttered thanks as he swiped it under the faucet, then carefully mopped along the gash stretching from his side to his back.
"You gonna tell me what happened?" You plied.
"You don't need to know."
"Uh-huh. So when the cops turn up asking questions about you and the blood on my floor, what am I supposed to tell 'em?"
"If you don't clean before the cops turn up, that's on you."
You huffed, reaching into the tampon and beginning to unfurl a few more tampons.
"Tape?" He asked.
"In the cabinet."
He reached up, blood smearing on the door as well.
"Thanks. Thank you," You nodded to it.
"Anytime."
Dickhead.
--
"I didn't ask you for help."
"I owed you."
"You didn't owe me shit."
"Alright. Now you owe me."
You glared at Frank through your mask, arm curled around your middle as you tried to catch your breath from catching a particularly rough kick.
"I had it handled," You argued.
"Sure you did," He cooed cruelly, nodding toward the blood trickling from a wound on your knee. "You restock yet?" Before you could answer, he reached into the deep pocket of his pants and lobbed something toward you. You had to straighten to catch it, and found an unopened wrap of gauze. You eyed the packaging, then arched a brow.
"Did you palm this from a hospital?" You asked, holding it up. He didn't answer, just took a few lazy steps back.
"Keep your head down," He warned. "I'll be by to collect some other time."
"Collect what?"
"You owe me now, remember?"
You thought, for a moment, that the small smile he shot you suited him. But before you could argue his point or thank him, he was gone, leaving you alone and wounded on a rooftop.
--
"We have to stop meeting like this."
"Gauze."
"Figured you would've saved some of what you grabbed for yourself."
The man shot you a grumpy glare, and you couldn't help but smile a little.
"Bathroom," You offered, nodding over your shoulder. You glanced after him, heading for the kitchen yourself.
"You want something to drink?" You called after him.
"...Beer."
It was an assumption that you had any, but he happened to be right. You grabbed one for each of you before you head back toward the bathroom. You went still at the sight of him disrobing in front of the open door. You blinked dumbly at the wound in the middle of his back, a long, jagged slash.
"Jesus," You muttered, coming closer. Then, more loudly, "You're gonna need more than gauze."
--
"I don't know your name, you know." You felt oddly shy as you said so. You glanced up at the back of his head, then turned your attention down to where you were nearly finished stitching the wound on his back. The two of you sat straddling the edge of your tub; now and again, Frank’s hand flexed in your view, the only outward sign of his his discomfort. You raised your hand, steadying it gently against his back before you draw the curved needle through the other side of the wound.
"I've seen the news, of course," You added. "But—Well, I've only ever heard them call you Punisher."
He didn't say a word, and you were certain he wouldn't say a thing to it. But—
"Frank."
It was blunt, flat—it suited him.
"Free to be," You mumbled.
"What?"
"We had this um...This project in sixth grade. We all had to go home and look up what our names meant. There was a kid in my class named Frank."
He grunted softly.
"You gonna tell me yours?" He added, glancing back toward you a touch. You arched a brow.
"You telling me you don't know it? Or did you not see it on my mail?"
His lips twitched with a rueful smile as he turned away from you again.
"Forgive me for tryin' to be polite."
"Well, don't do it again. Doesn't suit you."
--
His appearances became so much of an expectation that you started leaving the window by your fire escape open. Some nights, he’d gripe about it, warn that you were just asking for trouble. Other nights, he pushed himself over the sill with a wince and grunt, smearing blood in behind himself.
Now again, both of you arrived in bad shape. It almost became a game of cleaning up one another—who had it worse, who’d taken more hits, who’d taken out more scumbags.
It shouldn’t’ve felt sweet at all, by any means. But you found yourself hoping that Frank would show his face, hurt or no. He did a time or two when he was in fine fettle, with a mutter of, “Need a place to lay low for a bit.”
“And you chose here over the gutter you usually stay in?”
“You got a nicer view.”
You never learned much about him—at least, not int he way you’d like. You’d seen him fight. You’d been subject to his bandaging and care. He had training, but you couldn’t place it.
He tried to help you with your own technique now and again, at the worst times. He gave you tips on form—during your nightly activities.
“Straighten your wrist,” and, “You’re not aiming right,” and, “Watch where you’re pointing that thing, christ—”
--
“Why do you do this?”
The question caught you off-guard, and you didn’t answer right away. You just smoothed your fingers over the label of your beer, toying where it was wilting from condensation.
“Why do you?” You countered, glancing toward him. He didn’t answer right away, either. Then,
“Someone has to.”
“That’s it?...What about Daredevil?”
Frank scoffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head.
“Red plays whack-a-mole.”
“And you turn the city into a one-man-shooter simulation.”
Frank turned sharply toward you, lips pursed in irritation.
“’Cause you got nothin’ on your hands, do you.”
You opened your mouth, watching Frank push himself irritably off of the couch, pacing toward your window.
“...I lost people,” You admitted, raising your voice; you hated that your voice still shook with it, but you couldn’t help it. It made Frank go still, and you lowered your head, unable to stand the thought that he may look at you the way others did—with damnable pity.
“I only bust up shit that can be proven,” You tacked on softly.
“...You got a list?”
Your stomach twinged with anger, and fear.
“It’s sick, huh?” You mumbled, eyes prickling with tears. You wouldn’t blame him for saying so. And there was a piece of you that still feared that you would lose yourself to grief, and vengeance. But you heard Frank’s footsteps grow closer again, and he lowered himself to sit on the coffee table in front of you. You could see the bend of his knees, the denim of the dark jeans that he wore. And then he reached out, closing his hands around your shaking ones, steadying you.
“Not sick,” He said. “Focused.”
--
There were some nights when you found that you felt a little too determined, acted a little too ambitiously. It happened now and again, but you’d always managed to worm your way out of it. This time, you weren’t sure you’d be so lucky.
Your empty gun lowered, then dropped to the ground, yanking at your broken trigger finger on the way down. You took a step back, then another, then made to take a third, but your body swayed forward. Your knees gave out, and you managed to catch yourself on your hands. The pain rippled up your arms, sending a throb through the arm that had been dislocated and relocated. Your head felt heavy, like a ton of bricks is resting on the crown.
You let your eyes close for a moment, pain thrumming from your head, to the bullet wound on your thigh, to your broken finger, to the knife wound on your bicep.
The two hands closed around your good arm and heaved you up. You reeled back with it, your hand curling into a painful fist and whirling to strike. But you stilled as you found Frank there, his face twisted with concern and anger.
“The hell did you do?” He gritted out sharply, drawing you up onto your feet. You wobbled, steadying, eyeing the bodies littering the ground.
“You tell me,” You managed to mumble.
“Don’t get cute on me now.”
“Haven’t I been cute this whole time?”
“I tell you what, stay alive through the night and I’ll find you fuckin’ adorable.”
--
Frank reached up, gently prying the balled up dishtowel from your aching jaw. You’d been biting down and screaming around it as Frank had pried the bullet from your thigh and set your finger.
“...Please tell me you got it and you’re not just giving me a break,” You mumbled, trying to swallow despite your dry mouth.You were answered first by the clink of the bullet being dropped into the sink. Then,
“You wanna keep it? Souvenir?”
“Shut up,” You laughed in spite of yourself. “Asshole.”
Frank just grunted. You glanced down at the sound, at the blood-soaked towel beneath your thigh. The edges of it were blurring with the floor, the blood beginning to spread to the bathroom tile. Your stomach heaved at the sight, and you turned your head away, swallowing desperately again.
“You want the dishtowel back?” Frank asked. “This is gonna hurt.”
“It already hurts.”
Frank didn’t say a thing to that, just began to clean the wound. You fought to hold still, reaching your hands back and gripping the edge of the tub to keep from squirming away.
“You don’t do that again without tellin’ me.”
“What?” You mumbled dazedly.
“That was stupid and you know it.”
“You’re not my keeper, Frank.”
His hand raised, gripping your jaw. Your nose suddenly filled with a metallic tang; you felt the slip of his fingers on your skin where they were smeared with rubbing alcohol, bactine, and your blood.
“I’m goddamn serious.”
Your gaze wandered his almost dazedly, head still pounding from blood loss and fatigue.
“You worried you’ll have to find someone’s apartment to crawl into?” You managed. Frank’s expression tightened, pushing your face away before returning to his work.
“We’ll handle your arm next,” He grumbled.
“Sure. ‘m not using it.”
--
Waking up was a slow, painful rise to consciousness. You winced a touch, shifting on the couch. You pushed yourself up, drawing in a pained hiss and glancing down at your attire. You were still in the underwear and the tank top that you’d worn as Frank had bandaged you. You looked around your living room, then sighed, slouching back against the arm of the couch. At least you could lick your wounds in peace.
“Morning.”
Or not.
You lifted your head with a wince, eyeing where Frank was leaning against your counter, a mug of coffee in his hand.
“Why am I not in bed?” You mumbled.
“You knocked out there. I couldn’t talk you into moving before you did.” Frank pushed away from your counter and walked closer, eyes wandered you. “Wanna go there now?”
“I got it.”
You managed to get yourself up and down the hall, but not without Frank trailing you as your shadow. You finally lowered yourself onto your bed with a groan, drawing your legs up onto the bed and melting into your sheets.
“Whaddaya need?” He asked.
You shook your head in response, drawing in a deep breath.
“Think I’m just gonna...’m gonna rest a little more.”
--
When you opened your eyes again, it was dark. You felt large, warm hands smoothing over your thigh, heard the scritch and then the press of medical tape being pressed around your bandages. There was a moment before you felt the hands slide to clasp your knee, holding your leg steady. Then, a warm brush of breath, and the gentle press of lips. You opened your eyes sleepily, eyeing the small gathering of supplies—bandaging, bacitracin, alcohol wipes—and then looking down at Frank. His lips were still pressed to the dressing, lingering and soft.
“You missed one,” You mumbled. Frank went still, and you felt his hands flex in your skin. He glanced up at you from beneath his lashes, and your stomach flipped with the warmth you found in his dark eyes. Then, he pushed himself up, leaning down beside you.
“I missed three,” He corrected. You frowned, watching him press a kiss to your hand, then to your bicep. Then he tipped his chin up, pressing a kiss to your head.
“Took a hell of a whack there,” He reminded in a mumble, lips brushing your temple. You let your eyes slide closed, and found yourself reaching out, resting a hand on Frank’s forearm. It was another moment before Frank was lowering himself to lay beside you properly, face still pressed into your hair.
“...Don’t do that without me again,” He murmured. And while you’d been possessed with a fighting spirit the night before, you nodded a little bit.
“Didn’t know I could put a scare into you,” You mumbled. Then, “Didn’t mean to.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
You tipped your head back, resting your head on Frank’s shoulder.
quick lil headcanon i thought of like two minutes ago :>
Steven
I feel like Steven wears a watch. Since he’s usually a bit all over the place, you decided he could use it. It’s silver and sleek, an analog clock just because Steven likes his things a little bit antique. It’s his favorite thing ever and he always wears it. You’re surprised it’s not all dirty and rusted, but it’s the only thing Steven keeps clean (constantly, at least).
Marc
Rings. Marc wears rings. His favorite is probably this simple gold band that fits perfectly on his right middle finger (he likes the added bonus of being able to flip people off with it on). He has others as well, in gold and bronze and silver, but none of them are set with flashy diamonds. He prefers to just have something simple, something small that makes him feel pretty. The rings make him feel pretty and you think it’s adorable.
Jake
He loves his necklace. It’s a simple gold chain, but on the clasp, it has both of your initials engraved on it. You got it for him just so that you can see him wear it when he gets home, after he rips off his tie and unbuttons the first few buttons on his dress shirt. He loves it because it feels like he’s carrying a piece of you wherever he goes, making him feel safe and confident to attack the day.
Inspired by 'Rag n Bone' by Tor Miller
Marc Spector fic
Warnings: None
It's a call to those inside their homes
Who wish away
All the weight and disarray
Jagged stones
As they talk to me I walk alone
And ring my bell
Ring it loud and ring it well
Business.
It was like a claw embedded in leather, a phantom dragged through oceans made of flame. It was the sun, engulfing everything, she thought as she packed up her papers and shoved them into a briefcase. The business she dealt in was a liquid knife, a hellish infection. A wraith of feathers and glass screaming out arrows.
She fixed up her lipstick and twisted her hair into a bun, securing it with a pen before she shuffled into the corridor. The elevator ride was short and quick, guards watching her at every turn. No, not guards— regular people who just weren’t regular anymore. The watched her like hawks, even as she fiddled with the latches on her high heels before stepping out into the foyer and out the front door. Straight into the back of a waiting Escalade.
It was only when the door shut that she felt like she could exhale. Despite the prying eyes always on her, they didn’t know half of what she was up to. If they did, they’d have killed her before they even found out her name. But right now she was safe.
Right now, she kept it a secret.
And a secret was a strange thing. In the years of living many lies, she learned that there were three different kinds of secrets. One was the sort that everyone knew about, the sort needing at least two people. One to keep it and one to never know about it.
The second was a harder kind of secret; one kept from oneself. Every day, thousands of confessions were kept from their would-be confessors, none of them every knowing that their never-admitted secret all boiled down to the same three words: I am afraid.
And then there was the third kind of secret. The most hidden kind. A secret no one knew about. Perhaps it was known once upon a time, but was taken to the grave. Or maybe it was a useless mystery, lonely and unfounded because no one ever looked for it.
But then, sometimes…some rare times…a secret stayed undiscovered because it was something too big for the mind to hold. Too strange, too vast, and too terrifying to contemplate. She thought about this as the car pulled outside her apartment building and the driver came to open her door. Finally, she could be alone.
Everyone had secrets. They were keepers or the kept-from, players or the played. Secrets and cockroaches— that was all that would be left at the end of everything.
And she had lived with every sort of secret.
They weighed heavily on her shoulders as she trudged up the steps to the fourth floor, fished her keys out of her purse. The interior was dark, just like it always was, reminding her that she was all by herself. She kicked off her high heels on her way to the kitchen, tossed the briefcase on the counter as she opened the fridge. Pulled out a bottle of red wine.
It would’ve been unpleasant to drink if it was left out in the Cairo heat.
She poured a glass for herself as the light from the fridge cascaded across the hardwood floors. She brought the rim to her nose and inhaled the fragrant aroma of oak, earth, leather, and dried cherries. But there was something new to the bottle of cabernet this time. Something she couldn’t quite place.
There was the soft scent of salt, sandalwood, and…motor oil.
She took a cautious sip of the red liquid and slowly place the glass on the counter. Her other hand reached into her waistband, trying to move as gently as possible.
Before a hand encircled her wrist, spun her around, and pressed her into the cold countertop.
“Don’t,” a deep voice said.
And there the smell was stronger now. And she could feel the tears prickling in her eyes already before she even looked up.
The rarest of secrets was suddenly in the kitchen with her. It was here, a thing that could get them both killed if someone were to find out; because such a thing was incomprehensible. He was dead.
None of this was real because it was impossible.
But when she finally brought her eyes up to meet his, she searched for another reason to disbelieve. “Marc,” she breathed.
“If I let your hand go, do you promise not to shoot me with that pistol you’ve got?” he asked, almost like this was a joke.
She felt her teeth bare at him as she shoved forward, placing space between them. As quickly as possible, she grabbed her gun, popped the clip out, and set it on the countertop behind her hips. She wanted to shoot him. She wanted to slap him. Wanted to scream and kick and cry. But somehow, she felt barely able to move. Barely able to string together a line of thoughts in her head.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said to him, feeling her hands beginning to shake. “You were dead. I saw you, in the temple. A bullet went through you—”
“I’ve got a God watching my back, sweetheart,” he reminded her, taking a step back and looking around her apartment as though the bird himself was here watching. Maybe he was. “You, however, seem to have gone to the dark side. Didn’t expect you to be working the books for Harrow’s people.”
She scoffed. “If you’re here, it means you’ve been watching me. Which means you should know that I’m not working for his people. I was looking for something.”
“Another score?” Marc wondered, beginning to wander around the apartment looking for a light switch.
“No. Not exactly,” she began slowly. “I was looking for another tomb.”
The lights flickered on in her kitchen, basking them in warmth that she was suddenly so afraid of. She didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want those feelings to come flooding back that she fought so hard to control when he died. She didn’t want to be that person ever again.
“Why? Harrow’s been put away. He’s in an asylum and we put his Goddess away, too.”
She pressed a hand to her temple and kept her eyes closed as she listened to his footsteps return to her. “I keep hearing this voice in my head. I think another one is looking for an avatar. Which means something big is coming. None of it’s over, and I think it’s looking for me.”
There was a heavy silence for a moment.
“No,” Marc told her sternly. “You’re not going to be an avatar for anybody.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
Suddenly she felt his warm hand on her arm and she couldn’t stop herself from opening her eyes. There Marc was. Marc fucking Spector. He was the kind of handsome that crept into her bones, the kind that spoke to her of their memories before he needed to say another word.
When he died, she died. Her whole heart had shrivelled up inside of her ribcage and sat there, collecting dust and cobwebs while the whispers of another deity kept her up most nights. Those nights that she wished he had been in bed with her, keeping her safe and warm and calm. Those nights that she didn’t think she’d get through without him.
But she had.
And just when she had begun to heal, here he was. Ready to rip open her wounds again.
They were never an item. Never even kissed. But she always felt drawn to him, felt a yearning for him that was so indescribable that it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for her to feel that way when he was never hers to have. He had been married. Was in love with someone else.
There was an incredible sadness washing over her. “Why are you here, Marc? Why didn’t you just stay away?”
It was his turn to soften, and it took him another moment before he spoke. “I— no, we need your help.”
Steven x reader, with a mention and cameo from Marc Spector of course.
Warnings: None, a bit of angst
*
But as she reached, and reached some more— there was nothing but the edge of the bed. A cold spot where her boys were supposed to be. She pushed herself up on her elbow, hair falling into her face, and looked around the flat. There were no lights on. Not the crack under the bathroom door, not creeping from the kitchen. No one else was home.
The rain pelted against the windows of the flat, providing a symphony soundtrack to the cool night. She rolled over in the dark, hand stretching across wrinkled sheets.
Usually, Steven would meet her halfway, throwing an arm around her waist to pull her close to his chest and squeeze her so tightly that she had no choice but to drift back to sleep. Marc would take hold of her hand, a light sleeper, and press her palm to his lips. Would ask if she was all right before tucking her firmly against his side, head on his chest. If she couldn’t sleep, they’d stare at the ceiling together, listening to the rain. And Jake? She had yet to meet him.
But as she reached, and reached some more— there was nothing but the edge of the bed. A cold spot where her boys were supposed to be. She pushed herself up on her elbow, hair falling into her face, and looked around the flat. There were no lights on. Not the crack under the bathroom door, not creeping from the kitchen. No one else was home.
And it looked as though she had been alone for quite some time.
Was she really waking up alone again?
With a heavy sigh, she turned to her nightstand and clicked her phone. There wasn’t a single missed call, voicemail, or text message from either of them. Absolutely nothing. She was in their bed and they were already gone. Co-existing at its finest, she thought to herself. It was like Steven and Marc were barely even trying anymore.
She lazily pulled the sheet over her shoulders and pressed her bare feet against the hardwood floor. Padded across the flat into the kitchen and flicked the light on. Filled the kettle and readied a cup of herbal tea for herself. Green tea with a touch of cucumber and aloe. One that Steven had bought her for when she couldn’t sleep, but hated the taste of lavender and chamomile.
Outside the kitchen window the rain dripped down the glass. The sky was crying as much as she wanted to, but she couldn’t. After all, she had no one to blame but herself. She handed them chance after chance to disappoint her, and again she was left feeling wronged. She paid for their excuses to buy a little time, and she didn’t know why she entertained it.
But a part of her was proving that she could live up to the words that she could love the worst of him. Of them.
She made herself tea when the kettle was finished, flicked off the light, and curled up on the corner of the couch. Turned on a lamp and lifted one of Steven’s old books about Egyptian architecture. A photo of them acted like a bookmark that he told her to use; and she briefly smiled at it.
The photo was a little tiny strip from a photo booth. The top photo was of her and Steven of course, his cheeks flaming red as they pressed their shoulders together and made funny faces. His grin so wide it could’ve split his face. The second photo was Marc, a quick switch between them just for her. Marc had one hand against her jaw and the other in her hair, lips pressed firmly against hers as though to declare his feelings to his other selves. To show ownership of a part of her.
And the third was one they couldn’t quite decide on; she had asked for Jake to come out, to show himself for a single photograph with her. After all, they had been together for quite a while now. The boys argued with themselves inside their busy head, and eventually decided that if Jake wasn’t going to show up for the occasion, that the photograph should be of just her. And the decision was made so last minute that it showed her giggling with amusement as she reached for their arm, their figure blurry as they escaped from the booth just breaths before the camera clicked.
A happier time.
She tucked the photo away into the front cover and read on.
*
The sound of the door falling heavily shut jolted her awake, the book falling to the floor as her eyes snapped open. There Marc was, cursing under his breath as he had tried to walk soundlessly into the flat. And when he noticed her awake, he straightened his back and shoved his hands in the pockets of his damp jeans.
“I thought you’d still be in bed,” he said quietly, like nothing was wrong.
She ran a hand across her face and pushed the sheet off of her shoulders. “You’re tracking mud across the floor.”
She couldn’t look at him in the eyes while she hurried to the bathroom to grab a towel and bring it back. Kneeling down behind him, she began to wipe the hardwood boards of his boot prints, as though it could wipe away the feelings bubbling up in her stomach.
“I’ll do that, baby,” Marc told her, leaning and taking her hands in his. He used his feet to kick off his boots and stop himself from messing the floor up more than it was.
And when he was quiet for a moment, and she could feel the chill against her bare knees, she noticed the water droplets that bounced off the floor. Her face contorted with confusion, and she looked up to the ceiling. No leaks.
Just tears.
She hadn’t realized she was crying.
“Oh,” an English accent suddenly said, a mix of concern and surprise. Steven was suddenly here, lifting her up by her hands and pressing her into him while kissing the wetness away on her cheeks. “Oh, love, I’m sorry. I’ll tell Marc to check his shoes before coming home.”
She pushed against him to create some space. “It’s not that, Steven,” she sighed. “The problem is that I tried to stay up all night, waiting for one of you to show up before the morning. And now old habits have found their way through the door.”
“We didn’t realize so much time had passed,” Steven told her, still holding her waist. “We didn’t mean to stay out so long.”
“Sneaking out around my sleep schedule isn’t right.”
He frowned, and by the thousand apologies that showed in his eyes she knew she could do nothing but forgive him. Just like she always did. It was why Marc always let Steven front during times like these. It was impossible to say no to someone so sweet. Her first love.
“We’ll make it up to you, we promise, yeah?” Steven told her, holding on tightly. “We’ll go for dinner tonight. Or breakfast, if you’re not too tired. Or, we can go to sleep. Lay in bed for the rest of the day.”
She took his hand. “Okay,” she sighed, knowing what she was doing to herself. “Let’s go back to bed. This time, though, you have to stay. Do you hear me, Marc?”
With a gentle knock to his temple, Steven looked up as though listening to something in his head. Another voice. “He agrees. And he’s sorry, too.”
“Perfect.”
And, for now, all was right again in the world.
She only hoped that he would stay, and that they could all be together when they woke up.
Part 2/2
Takes place while looking through Marc's memories
Listened to 'Hold me While You Wait' by Lewis Capaldi
Marc staggered to his feet, as though punched through the heart and his bones were resonating with the pain. “To love is to split your knuckles on your own teeth. Ask anyone, Steven. Open your eyes. There’s always blood and always something missing in the aftermath. I couldn’t take anything more from her.”
Steven followed her like a puppy dog and he emerged from one memory into another. The bathroom door at the end of the corridor had instead led them through to a dock in the middle of the night, in the middle of Cairo.
There the woman was again, sitting on the edge of the dock with her toes dipped into the water and a glass of wine in her hand. There was a party going on behind them, but they weren’t a part of it. Or, maybe they were, but Rana didn’t want to be there.
She was wearing all white. Her heart was still bleeding, and she was still crying. Her lip bitten, the bloodied-knuckle dissonance of her lover leaving her. The absence of something was everything.
It was as though this was a night with no ending. It was a goodbye in progress, halfway done already. And here she was, sitting alone when she was supposed to be dancing. Sitting alone, twirling a piece of string from her cardigan around the ring finger of her left hand. Imagining. Wishing.
A ghost walked through him. A figure with his hands in his pockets, head down and afraid to look at the moth-eaten blanket of the star-filled sky. It was Marc again, and it didn’t take a genius to think of where this memory was headed.
He sat next to her, put an arm around her shoulders. But she did not lean into him. Did not stir. It was like she was pretending with all her might that he wasn’t there. Like she was preparing herself for the real thing.
This was a book unfolding. There was never a cover page, never an author’s note. Marc had hidden this memory from the both of them for so long and now the pages were turning. And, by mistake, Steven was reading the words that were written, but there was no room for.
“You haven’t spoken to me all night,” Marc murmured to her, pressing his lips to her temple.
Steven could tell that he was trying to convince himself that they were salvageable. But his kisses were bruised, his embraced lined with sharp edges. By the way she shrunk, Rana only came away from him scarred.
“I don’t know what to say,” Rana told him, letting the string around her finger drop with the corner of her cardigan. A piece of her, gone. Then, after a moment, she spoke again. “You’re leaving.”
Marc pulled his arm away from her and pressed his hands together in his lap. “I’ve got a funny feeling that you’re done asking me to stay.”
“I am. And that is the last piece of grace I have to offer.”
“Hmm,” Marc muttered, half-surprised and half-expectant of this answer. “I guess this is where we say our goodbye then.”
Finally, Rana looked at him. Longingly and lovingly. She took one of his hands in hers and Steven watched, wishing he knew what her skin felt like against his. Perhaps they would always be someone she remembered loving, but it seemed that she was someone Marc plucked from a flower bed only to watch wither.
“I love you, you know,” Marc told her. And there was never so much honesty in his voice as there was in this particular moment from time. “And maybe in another life, we’ll find each other.”
“No, we won’t,” Rana told him with a shake of her head and a humourless chuckle. “You’ll be too busy chasing relics and bad guys.”
“Well, I leave in a few hours. Can I hold you while I wait?”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Of course you can.”
It was so easy. So simple. There was no shouting and no arguing. There wasn’t a single glass thrown at one another, or a snarky comment from Marc to be heard. Not in this memory, and not in the last one. It perplexed Steven.
He turned to his counterpart who was on his knees against the wooden boards of the dock. Watching his memory with a twinkle in his eye that said he didn’t want to leave this moment. And Steven couldn’t understand it. He couldn’t recall the woman’s name when he first saw her, couldn’t remember how they met. There was nothing in his head that could explain the emotions here.
“Why did we leave?” Steven asked, eyes begging for a good enough answer. “You said you loved her. She loved us and you left?”
“We weren’t right for her,” Marc said quietly as the couple before them continued their small embrace in a sad silence.
He scoffed. “We were perfect. She was perfect.”
Marc staggered to his feet, as though punched through the heart and his bones were resonating with the pain. “To love is to split your knuckles on your own teeth. Ask anyone, Steven. Open your eyes. There’s always blood and always something missing in the aftermath. I couldn’t take anything more from her.”
“Yet you can’t forgive yourself for snapping her in half.”
This memory was here for a reason. It was here for Steven to see because it needed to be spoken about. There was something here left to untangle, not just a sky full of vultures circling over the carnage of the crime that was this love.
“It was a losing battle,” Marc told him, grabbing him by the shoulders to stop him from turning back around. From looking again at her.“I couldn’t give her what she needed. What she wanted.”
“But we could have,” Steven argued, pushing him away. It felt like he was bleeding from a wound he didn’t even realize was there. “All you had to do was stay. And now you can’t forgive yourself for this.”
Marc’s eyes were glassy now, and he shivered as though he could feel the coolness of this Cairo night all over again. He had lived as an evoker of hail. Sword dance and flutter. Maker of tide and blood. There were too many holes in their body and too little time. Maybe he had been hiding this memory for too long.
Now he was a wafer, thin and soft and melting on a lost girl’s tongue.
Part 1/2
Takes place while looking through Marc's memories
Listened to 'All for Us' by Labyrinth
The woman came inside and closed the balcony doors with a gentleness that stirred something within Steven. It felt like sympathy. He knew what it felt like to cry alone, reaching for something in the dark to prove that there was something more to life. Always falling short of something, fingertips feeling nothing.
This room was different from the others, Steven realized.
It was different because Marc cowered behind him as they walked through the door, and the smell of flowers and coffee was so overpowering that it seemed to awaken something within them. Within them both.
This wasn’t just a memory Marc was trying to hide from him— it was a memory that he, too, had. And he knew it. He knew it as the walls transformed into a small apartment. White and contemporary, without much space but perfect use of every corner and shape available.
He walked through its front door. The kitchen was to the right, small with two wine glasses on the counter from the night before and a pan on the stove that was still warm. Someone had made breakfast. French toast, he thought by the sweet smell in the air as he stepped further into the area.
He emerged into a living room, where a small white couch, one single coffee table, and a television were sitting. The TV was turned to the news, Egyptian words rolling off the tongue of the reporter as they discussed the weather and the traffic. But that wasn’t the intriguing part.
The part that pulled them into this memory stood on the open balcony, where the white curtains blew gently into the living room with the wind and a slender woman stood casually with her back to them. She had long curls, dark as obsidian, and a coffee cup in her hand. She wore their boxers, and a button-down top that was so full of wrinkles that he already could tell what happened the night before. One of her bare feet poked at the flower pot on the floor— one of many. This one was growing a beautiful blue flower.
“Are you going to be like this all day?” a voice called from the bedroom.
Steven’s head turned to see a past version of himself— of Marc— entering the room with a towel around his waist and his hair still wet from the shower. A frustrated expression was on his face. One that dripped with silent anger and self-loathing he had come to live with.
The woman turned her head to glance over her shoulder. She was beautiful, with full lips and a perfect nose, cheeks smooth and wet with tears. He hadn’t realized before, but she was crying. Quietly, to herself, as though afraid to bother him. She clutched the coffee cup to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
“That depends,” she spoke, accent light and travelled. It did not shake. As though she, too, was warring with herself and trying to keep the balance of life between them from collapsing. “Are you still going on the mission?”
Marc sighed heavily. “I have to. You knew this before we got into this mess.”
“No. You told me you’d stay with me. You told me that last one would be exactly that— the very last one,” she told him, finally turning around.
The woman came inside and closed the balcony doors with a gentleness that stirred something within Steven. It felt like sympathy. He knew what it felt like to cry alone, reaching for something in the dark to prove that there was something more to life. Always falling short of something, fingertips feeling nothing.
“You don’t know what it’s like dealing with all of these broken promises. I’d give you the world if it meant you’d stay, for good,” she told him, putting the coffee cup down.
She stepped toward Marc and put her hands on his face. There was something in his eyes. He took hold of her wrists and pulled her away. Something contorted so quickly across her expression that Steven nearly missed it. But he could sense her pain from a mile away.
“I’m doing this all for us,” Marc said briskly. “Why don’t you get that?”
“Because there is no us if I’m the only one here.”
Steven turned around as the two figures before him stood silently in front of each other. Ghosts who didn’t know how to see each other, who kept passing one another in the night. Marc, in his hospital clothes, cowered by the front door. Trying not to look at the memory in front of them.
“Who was she?” Steven asked quietly, praying that there was more to this.
Marc couldn’t look at him in the eye. “She was….Rana.”
The name didn’t ring a bell in his head. “Did we live together?”
“Yes. Even when we had no food in the kitchen, no money….she made us happy,” he told him quietly, voice cracking with guilt. “I’d have done 25 to life to give her the world.”
“But you didn’t,” Steven accused. “We left her, didn’t we?”
He turned back to the scene as it unfolded, Rana turning away from them with tears in her eyes as the coffee cup fell from the corner of the table. It fell in slow motion, the liquid sloshing over the rim toward the delicate rug on the floor as she walked into a hallway and disappeared.
Like a ghost.
Marc stood there, staring after her with the towel still around his waist. Guilty or innocent, they loved her. But he stood still as though she were simply a stranger passing through their home. Her footsteps got further and further away, her figure completely gone from their view.
Steven lurched forward, arm reaching out to follow her.
“No!” Marc shouted at him, grabbing hold of his shirt.
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