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moon knight- a friend

a/n: last entry for @moonknight-events MK Bingo! Barely edited, but I wanted to get this final one in. It was SO MUCH fun participating and seeing the amazing, amazing work that everyone created for this. Thank you so much @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch for organizing and helping us enrich our environment/community ❤️

Summary: You and Marc Spector have a purely physical relationship. Both operating in society’s gray area, you try to avoid conflicts of interest. But when you’re hired to steal an artifact from a London museum, you wonder if even Marc himself knows all of his secrets.

Contents: pre-show, gn!reader, no actual smut just sex talk, fwb, Steven is still unaware of Marc (~3k)

-----

When you and Marc were mercenaries together, it was strictly professional.

He disappeared for days at a time.

He drank too much.

People gave him a wide berth. The nicest thing people called him was “unstable.”

You’d been too busy with your own demons to think much about his. But years later, after you’d hung up your AR-15, Spector had shown up through a friend of a friend of a friend. Alive and still “unstable,” asking for help acquiring fake passports and weapons.

You’d been sleeping together ever since. Whenever your paths crossed.

Like yesterday, when you’d been assessing security at a London museum for an illegal acquisition of an Egyptian artifact for a client.

And who’d been there but Marc Spector? Wearing an adorably garish patterned shirt and a “Steven” nametag.

Now, you’re laying in bed together in your hotel room. Your fingers trace over Marc’s tan skin, still sweaty. You’d hardly gotten the door open before you were ripping each other’s clothes off. So, par for the course.

You never asked personal questions. Neither did he. This time was different, though.

You prop yourself up on your elbow so you can look down at the sharp planes of his face. His heavy eyelids and lashes. The way his curly hair sticks to his forehead.

“I know this is breaking an unspoken rule,” you say, “but if we have a professional conflict, I’d rather know about it now.”

Marc’s guard goes up. A slight tensing of his muscles, a downturn of his lips. No matter how hardened Marc was, though, his eyes still can’t hide anything from you.

You decide to take a chance and be up front with him. “I’m breaking into the museum in three days. One of the death masks is due to be removed from display for cleaning. I was hired to steal it.”

Marc’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t care why you’re working there, unless you were hired to steal the same thing?”

Marc shakes his head subtly.

“Okay then,” you say, relaxing a bit. “I’ll pay you a grand for your employee ID badge. Be a lot easier for me.”

“No,” he says immediately, “I can’t compromise my cover.”

“Steven?” You ask.

Marc’s eyes flicker. “Please, don’t say that name.”

Something’s going on there. You can feel it.

Over the last few years, Marc had been almost normal. Less erratic, doesn’t talk to himself anymore.

He obviously still has issues he isn’t willing to share, though. It stings, but you only see each other a few times a year. It isn’t like you’re really friends or anything.

You lay your hand on his chest. “I won’t cause trouble with whatever you’re doing here. If you do the same for me.”

Marc glances out the window.

“Wind’s picking up,” you say, watching the trees outside blow fiercely, spewing leaves off their branches.

Marc’s hand comes up to cover yours. His eyes trail over your face.

“I can’t let you steal that mask,” he says.

You’ve never been at odds with him before. “Three grand?”

Marc sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not the money.”

Tree branches whip against the hotel window and you jump.

“Calm down,” Marc says, but he’s looking outside and not at you.

“I’m calm,” you say, pulling your hand away and rolling off the bed. “You need to leave.”

Marc nods. He bends down to pick up his clothes and starts to get dressed.

His eyes plead with you. “Don’t come to the museum again. Don’t do the job.”

“The client already paid me, Marc. You know how this works. I couldn’t return the money, even if I wanted to. Which, I don’t.” You fold your arms. “Just stay out of my way.”

Marc glances at you, one of the corners of his mouth smiles. “We’ve never been good at that, have we? Staying out of each other’s way.” He holds his t-shirt in his hands, thinking. “If you come to the museum, I’m going to act like I don’t know you. If you try to steal anything, I’m going to stop you.”

A laugh barks out of you. “I’m a better thief than you are security guard. We both know it.”

“Not anymore,” he says, pulling his shirt back on. He walks around to find his shoes, stuffs his still-bare feet inside. He walks over to you.

He cups your face in his big, warm hands.

“I know what we have isn’t personal,” he says, “and that’s my fault. But trust me on this one. Don’t do the job.”

Marc looks at you now with eyes almost as dark as earlier that night, an honesty and rawness you’ve never seen outside of when he’s inside of you.

You pull his hands away. “I’m sorry, Marc.”

A pained look crosses his face. “Me too.”

*****

Tidying the brochures is Steven’s third least favorite job. The second is overnight inventory. A lonely, endless task. The worst job is anything involving Donna.

Unfortunately, all three are on the agenda.

He doesn’t remember skipping out on the last half of his shift yesterday, but he can’t deny that it’d happened.

He remembered closing his eyes in a quiet corner of the museum during his break. He must’ve sleepwalked right out. He’d come to outside of a hotel on the other side of town, sockless and without a jacket.

Punishment is doing all of the fiddly, annoying tasks today.

Steven watches a tour group pass by.

A person at the back lags behind. Probably bored. If he gave the tours, no one would be bored. Especially not someone with eyes like yours, sharp and observant.

Your gaze lands on him. He gives you a little wave, brochure for a double-decker tour of London still in hand.

You give him a very strange look in return. A little stiff, confused, as if you expect him to come talk to you.

Surely you wouldn’t expect that, though.

But you’re walking over. Steven’s heart races.

“Hi,” you say cautiously.

Steven smiles. “Hiya, d’you need assistance? I see you drew the short straw and got Phil as your guide. He’s nice enough, but a bit dry. If you have any questions, maybe I can help though. I work in the gift shop, but I promise I know more about all of this than Phil. He’s more interested in the sandwiches at the cafe than Tawaret.” He laughs, then remembers himself. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking your ear off.”

“No,” you say, your eyes wide, “rant away. This is fascinating. I never knew you were such a good actor.”

Steven screws up his face. “Actor? No, I’m more of a, um, I guess you could call me a gift-shop-ist.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” you say, nodding and looking him over.

Steven’s cheeks feel a bit warm from your attention, but it’s not entirely unwelcome. Something about you is familiar, your scent maybe, or the sound of your voice. He can’t put his finger on it.

That, at least, is something he knows well. He feels like his brain is always trying to grasp at sleepy memories just out of his reach.

You loop your arm through his, surprising him. You pull him toward one of the display cases.

“What do you know about this?” You tap the glass.

Steven, caught up in the profile of your face, has to unscramble his thoughts for a second. “That is, to be honest, a poor example of a death mask. Pre-Roman but only just.”

Your squeeze your body closer to his.

“Interesting,” you say. “And why isn’t it any good?”

“Well, it has value of course, historically speaking,” Steven says, trying to keep his tone professional. “It’s not original, though. It’s a copy. Maybe a copy of a copy. The lineage of it is fascinating. It’s a recent acquisition.”

Your arm slips out of his and you lean against the case, staring hard at him.

Steven shifts under your scrutiny.

“I’m pretty sure this one is the original,” you say.

Steven swallows. “Well, I can understand why you’d think that. The research staff certainly do, and labeled it as such. But I disagree.”

You give him a smile, a slightly annoyed look. “Why am I not surprised? You're going to tell me it's useless? Stop asking questions about it?”

“Have I done something to offend you? I’m sorry.” Steven lays a hand over his chest.

“You can’t tell me this is fake just to throw me off my job,” you say.

“You’re not here working,” Steven says. “I am.”

You lean forward slightly. “You don’t tell me what to do. I’m an independent contractor, just like you.”

Steven tries to make sense of what you’re saying, but like a lot of things in his life, nothing quite lines up. Before he can ask more, you turn and walk swiftly back out of the exhibit hall.

Steven watches you go, torn between confusion and a longing that he doesn’t understand.

*****

You knew Marc would be waiting for you in one of the collections management rooms in the museum. The room where the artifact is being cleaned.

And he doesn’t disappoint.

He’s still wearing his “Steven” get-up. The table next to him is covered in a white sheet, presumably with what you’re after underneath it.

You close the door behind you when you enter.

“Hell, Spector, with a performance like that, I think Hollywood’s going to be calling you any minute,” you say as you walk into the room toward him.

A flicker of confusion crosses his face.

“Did we speak earlier?” He asks.

You roll your eyes. “No, Marc, we didn’t. I was speaking to ‘Steven,’ right?”

Marc frowns.

Your eyes scan his body, but he doesn’t look armed.

“Anyway,” you say, “I decided to move up my timeline after you made it clear you weren’t going to play nice. Seems like you anticipated that.”

Marc holds out a hand, like he’s trying to soothe a wild animal. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with here. This artifact isn’t just a mask. It’s a map.”

“For fuck’s sake, Marc. Which is it? Is it a map and important, or is it fake like you told me earlier?” You stretch out your neck, anticipating a fight.

“Fake?” Marc’s voice hones to a sharp edge. He turns to the table and pulls off the white sheet in one, harsh tug.

“Not fake, just not ‘original,’ or whatever," you say.

You watch him pick up the mask and examine it, front and back.

You keep your distance, out of arm’s length but positioned slightly behind him. You don’t want to fight him. Hand to hand was never your strongest skill. You’ve seen Marc in action, though, and you know how vicious he can be.

How far would he go to stop you?

You only know this: you can’t kill him.

If you let yourself, you could love him. And because of that, even though his attention isn’t fully on you and you could probably take out your knife and stab him right through a kidney before he’d react, you don’t make a move against him.

Marc drops the mask back on the table. His voice is as tense as his shoulders. “How did you know this wasn’t the original?”

Your senses tell you something’s wrong. Off.

“I didn’t,” you say slowly. “You did.”

Marc’s head drops.

You lay one hand on the knife sheathed to your thigh, just in case. The other reaches out as you take a few steps and close the distance to Marc. You rest your hand on his shoulders, and after a few seconds, run it back and forth. Some of the tension leaves his body.

“Marc, what’s going on here?” You ask.

He shakes his head, his curls bouncing and hiding any expression on his face as he keeps looking down at the table.

“You should go,” he says. “Get as far away from me as you can. I’m a mess, sweetheart.”

The endearment makes your skin feel hot. He’s never used it before.

“The good news is, my client paid for the original, so I don’t have to kick your ass. For now,” you say. "I'll be returning their money."

Marc breathes out a laugh.

“I have to ask though, do you know where the original is?”

Marc straightens up from the table. Your hand drops. He grabs it and holds on, almost absentmindedly.

“I don’t know. Probably nowhere good,” he says.

“But you have an idea?”

Marc gives you a wry look. “I don’t have shit. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m barely hanging on here. Never mind. Not your problem.”

“What if it were?” You ask, pulling him closer to you. “My problem, I mean. Let me help, please.”

His arms wrap around you loosely. “We’ve done a lot of jobs together, but I can’t drag you into this one. It’s too dangerous. Besides,” he says with a dark look, “I already have help. And he’s pretty selfish about my time.”

“Oh,” you say, slightly surprised.

“No,” Marc laughs, “it’s not like that. He’s my boss and I owe him my life. So, I’m kind of stuck in his service for the rest of eternity.”

He looks around the room. “There is something, though,” he says.

“Anything.”

Marc’s face softens as he looks at you. There are lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, ones that never used to be there. He’s only gotten more handsome as the years have gone on, but he looks so tired you want to wrap him up in a blanket and let him have a good night's sleep somewhere quiet.

“You said you spoke to Steven earlier,” he says, gauging your reaction. “I can’t really explain, but he’s not me. I’m not him either.”

You don’t understand what he seems to be hinting at, but you’re used to taking things as they come with Marc.

“He’s special,” Marc says. “Stronger than he knows, but he’s lonely. Could use a friend.”

“Me?” You say, almost shocked.

He grins. “You’re good company. Always were. And with this job canceled, I know you’ll need the money. Just keep an eye on him. I’ll wire you ten k.”

You open your mouth, but Marc lays his fingers over your lips.

“Jobs are no questions asked,” he says. “Unless you’ve changed that policy.”

You shake your head and he drops his fingers.

“Will I see you soon, then?” You feel weak for asking, but can’t stop the question.

Marc leans in and kisses you softly. Not like anything you’ve shared before. It feels like, a shiver runs through you, love.

*****

Steven sells a 500 piece puzzle of the Great Pyramid of Giza. Then an ankh necklace. An umbrella with hieroglyphics.

None of the customers are interested in a conversation about them. Shame, really.

He rubs his fingers over his eyes. He thought he’d gotten a full night’s sleep last night. But he has the feeling that maybe his body was out and about again. Although how he’d gotten past all his own traps and devices, he didn’t know.

A heavy book about Gods and Goddesses thumps down on the counter.

Steven looks up.

“Oh, hello,” he says with a smile.

“Hi again,” you say. “I’m sorry about the other day. I was really rude.”

“No, not at all,” Steven says. He scans the book. “We all have off days. Cash or card?”

You take out your wallet. “Cash.”

You set down a few bills. Steven wraps the book in tissue paper before putting it in the bag, an unnecessary step, but it keeps the dust jacket from getting crushed.

“I cut you off before you could finish telling me about the exhibit,” you say. “Do you do private tours?”

Steven looks up. He points a finger to himself. “Me? I don’t do tours at all. Not allowed.”

You frown. “Seems like a bad decision on management’s part.”

Steven looks around, then leans a bit toward you. “They’re not the brightest around here.”

You smile. Steven feels a lightness in his chest. He might never have felt like this before, except maybe in the morning when he talks to Gus. Easy conversation, that. Relaxing.

He refrains from comparing you to his goldfish, though. You might not appreciate it.

“How about you tell me more over lunch, then? If you have a break. Or tonight after work. Or tomorrow?” You ask. “My treat. Please.”

It sounds like a date. But why would someone as interesting as you ever want to date him? Bonkers.

But he hasn’t stopped thinking about you. Hasn’t even tried to stop.

He’s a mess, though. Waking up in the middle of the street, violent dreams, can’t even get a simple job like a gift shop clerk right.

“That’s kind of you,” Steven says, “but I’m not really able to go on dates now. I’d love to, but I, um,” he smiles sadly.

He takes the money you laid down and opens the till.

“I understand,” you say. “You feel like you’re barely holding it together.”

Steven hands you your change. “Yeah, I do.”

Something in your eyes says that you do actually understand. It lifts his spirits.

“Not a date then. How about as friends? Everyone could use a friend,” you smile at him.

He breaks out in a huge grin. “Yeah, I could definitely use one of those.”

You steal a pen from next to the cash register and write down your number and name on your receipt. You hand it to him.

“I can’t wait to get to know you, Steven,” you say. “You probably have all kinds of secrets.”

Steven folds the receipt carefully and puts it in his shirt pocket. “No secrets, I’m afraid. I’m boring as anything.”

Your eyes study him. That way he’s starting to recognize. Like you’re not sure if he’s joking or not. Like you’re poking around for something.

“Steven Grant, you’re anything but boring,” you say. “Text me.”

You grab your bag and walk out. Steven watches you go, barely holding his tongue. He didn’t want to make a bad impression, or derail things.

But he was certain that he’d never told you his last name.

-----

Square I "secret relationship"’" and in this fic, every relationship is kind of a secret. Steven doesn’t know about Marc, and therefore doesn’t know reader knows him. Reader is making friends w/ Steven under false pretenses. Messy.

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